


Armies of the Inquisition

by Luaithe



Series: Tale of a Templar [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Lyrium, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mage-Templar War, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2019-07-01 03:42:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 65,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15765894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luaithe/pseuds/Luaithe
Summary: Three years after the tragedy in Kirkwall, and Thedas is at war. The fragile alliance between the Templar Order and the Circles of Magi has been shattered. The Chantry is crumbling, all control lost over both the Order and the Circles. Divine Justinia calls a conclave to put an end to the conflict. And if it fails, the Inquisition will be reborn.An ex-templar has experienced the worst that both sides have to offer. He has seen Circles fall and the corruption at the heart of the Order. When he is offered a chance at redemption as Commander of the Divine's force, he could hardly refuse.





	1. A Familiar Journey

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a very story focused telling of Dragon Age Inquisition from a little after DAII. This continues on directly after the end of my previous fic ([The Fall of the Order](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13592919)) and will use my canon from there. I do intend to make sure that it's completely standalone, so any references to my own fic's events should generally be relatively minor.
> 
> Tags to be added as they become relevant.

The Waking Sea

Haring 9:40 Dragon  


The Waking Sea in winter is not a peaceful one. Far from the relative calm of the ragged cliffs and isolated beaches of the Wounded Coast, it heaved in great waves as tall as a man, tossing up spray with enthusiastic abandon. The steel grey waves were almost ethereally translucent in the cold winter sunshine and left the icy blue sky almost as colourless where the two met.

The pair of ships that sliced through the waves were a scrap of colour in that otherwise unbroken expanse of sea and sky. Brilliant red sails emblazoned with the Chantry sunburst belled out in the wind, carrying the ships and their passengers towards the distant shores of Ferelden. Carven figureheads of Andraste stood proudly on the prow, swords pointed towards their destination.

Despite the crystalline brightness of the day, not many apart from the ships' crew were willing to brave the biting winds and salt spray. The crew above decks were far too busy to pay attention to the lone passenger who chose to stand out of the way at the stern. They barely acknowledged the pensive figure of a man who had once been a Knight-Captain, then Knight-Commander of the most infamous Circle of Magi in Thedas. Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford, right hand to Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard during her cruellest years. Knight-Commander Cullen, leader of a crippled fragment of the Templar Order. Every mage or templar in Thedas had to recognise those names by now. But in simple travel clothing — an unimaginable luxury for someone sworn to vows of poverty and supported by the Chantry for almost twenty years — he was anonymous. It had been far too long since he could savour that feeling.

The peace was a chance to bid his own farewell to a city he had called home for ten years. Only 'home' wasn't an even vaguely accurate description. A place he had served for ten years would be more truthful. Neither Kirkwall nor the Gallows — home of Kirkwall’s templars — had been home. He had been sent there, so many years ago, because no one had known what else to do with an angry templar nearly broken by his experiences. Guilt for his failure, resentment for his abandonment, and above all, a crippling fear that the mages he oversaw were simply waiting to strike again. The Circle at Kinloch Hold had no longer been a place where he could stay. Not without losing what was left of his fragile sanity. Greenfell had been no better. For a while, Kirkwall had seemed right. Here was a Knight-Commander who saw the danger that Cullen saw  — where no one else did — and chose to control that danger. She meant to prevent anyone from suffering thanks to magic, rather than waiting for it to strike. He had given her all his respect and loyalty. Then she had gone mad and he had refused to accept it until it was too late. Loyal until the last.

A city had fallen. A war had begun. And he had been left bound to an Order that bore no resemblance to his shining boyhood dream.

He might not be arrogant enough to assume the fault was all his, but he could never claim to be innocent. Yet somehow, he had been given a chance to find himself a new purpose, true to the idealistic boy he had once been. Even if that boy was dead. A chance to break free of chains real and imagined. A chance to find redemption. It might not be deserved or even a wise one to offer him, but he didn't intend to waste it.

So when he watched Kirkwall fade into the distance, there was no regret or sense of loss. The towering bronze statues guarding the bay had shrunk until he could have covered them with a thumb. Then even the coastline had become nothing but a thin black line on the horizon. It had lifted a weight on his shoulders. Just the smallest lightening, but after so long carrying the load, even that was a small mercy he had never expected.

He pulled his thin coat a little tighter around his shoulders and rested his elbows on the railing. It might have been suited to the mild weather of the Free Marches, but it was no match for the open sea, let alone Fereldan winters. The Fereldan in him remembered that cold, even after ten years away, even now that lyrium had begun to blur those distant memories. The coat left his shoulders feeling far too light after ten years in armour. But his armour had been left behind, along with any other links to his time in the Order, so that he could start anew. Or so he prayed. He knew only too well how the past dug its claws into the mind with a grip that even lyrium hadn't been able to shake.

Kirkwallers refused to acknowledge that such cold existed. He wondered idly how his subordinates and one-time mage charges were coping on the ship trailing a mile behind his. His own fellow passengers had retreated to the shelter offered below decks soon after reaching the open sea. Cullen would remain above deck as long as he could manage. The whole journey if it were possible. The windowless confines of the Gallows had acclimated him to such places, but it was still far better out here in the light and air.

He watched the seas for hours, until even the faint black line of the Wounded Coast was lost. Half his attention registered the bustle of crew behind him, tending to the myriad baffling tasks of running a ship. He would have to trust they knew their work. For now, he had no one and nothing to oversee or command and no new crises to manage. It was odd, to say the least. That break would end when they landed in Highever late the following day.

The majority of his focus remained on the rush of wind, the sound of waves, so much louder than from the Gallows, and the setting of the sun that turned the heaving waves a fiery orange.

~~~~

 _The Waking Sea in summer was not a peaceful one. The merchantman lumbered through towering waves that set the craft rocking unsteadily. Ferelden might be plagued by a looming Blight, but money could be made by those brave enough to risk the journey. Heavily laden ships like this were further burdened by the refugees able to pay a captain_ _’s extortionate fees. Even the Chantry had to pay. It was a sure sign of how eager they had been to have Cullen transferred._

 _When Cullen had first boarded, a man in dusty clothing had crept up to him, hat clasped in his hands in the image of a deferential petitioner. Seeing only templar robes, so similar to those of a Chantry Brother to the uninitiated, he had thought to ask Cullen to lead a prayer that the Blight be defeated swiftly. The petitioner had registered the longsword belted at Cullen_ _’s hip a moment after the Sword of Mercy embroidered over his heart. His polite apology had dissolved into unintelligible babbles as he fled from the haunted eyes that met his._

_His fellow passengers milled about on the deck, clutching the meagre possessions they had been able to take with them when they fled the Blight. But a newly minted Knight-Corporal of the Templar Order merited more than whatever space he could claim below deck. He had been given a cabin of his own._

_When night fell, the captain ushered all of his passengers out of the way, already tired of the endless chatter. Cullen was a templar. He had been following orders since he was thirteen. He went down to his cabin when he was told._

_Lightless. Airless. Little better than a cell and just as confining. It had been bad enough when he had been shown his berth in daytime. Being raised and trained by the Order had made him tall and broad shouldered. His head scraped the low ceiling below deck. By the time he took his first step down the stairs leading below, his heart was fluttering in an erratic beat. By the time he stood just outside the door to the tiny cabin, his breaths were uncontrolled short gasps. His shaking hands could barely find the hilt of his sword. He retreated blindly back up the stairs and dashed to the nearest railing, almost tripping over a family of refugees in the process. In the night time darkness, no one saw him retch helplessly until there was nothing left in his stomach, until he feared the lyrium he had taken in the morning would follow. He slumped over the railing, watching the dark waves pass below until dawn_ _’s light._

 _Dawn forced him down to the cabin to retrieve a lyrium vial from the small supply with which he had been entrusted for the journey. He had been a templar for long enough that the process was as familiar as his own name. It wasn_ _’t the seasickness and swaying of the ship that meant he almost spilled the vial as he prepared his draught._

 _The fresh vial did a little to mask the emotions and soothe the nausea. Enough that he didn_ _’t behead the captain when the man had caught him by surprise with a polite good day. Cullen knew more lyrium would help. He had also seen enough to know that strict control was necessary._

 _The ship_ _’s herbalist found him shivering in the storm lashing the ship that afternoon, staring blindly into the curtains of rain and letting the wind whip away his quiet whisper of the Chant. The other passengers had taken what shelter they could below deck. Conveniently, that kept them away from a templar shipmate they were just learning to be cautious around._

_“You’re not the first passenger to suffer from sea sickness,” he said with a weary smile that said he handled the problem far too often for his liking._

_Cullen ignored the remedy the herbalist pushed towards him and paused briefly in his recital of the Chant._ _“I can’t breathe down there,” he said. Without the Chant to keep his focus, he could barely restrain the sobbing gasp that threatened to break free of his control._

 _The herbalist_ _’s expression changed, as if he suddenly saw the nineteen year old boy behind the formal templar attire._

_“I’ll see what I can do,” he said crisply._

_Here was a challenge more interesting than brewing yet another remedy for seasickness. He returned a little before nightfall with a sickly green potion._

_“I have no idea if it will work. Let me know.”_

_This time, Cullen endured half an hour tossing and turning on a bunk that heaved with the ship before he raced blindly above deck, a hand clasped over his mouth to hold back the plea for mercy that threatened to spill out. He spent the rest of the night alternately pacing the deck and praying with all the fervent belief he could muster, hand in a death-grip about the hilt of his sword. The crew kept out of his way._

_The herbalist came to visit Cullen bright and early. His smile faltered when he saw Cullen_ _’s haggard face. He gave a few concerned words, offered to try again. “Or perhaps a sleeping draught?” he volunteered. “We can’t have such a fine young templar unable to sleep on this ship.”_

 _For a moment, Cullen so desperately wanted to accept the kind words. But the demon had shown him how dangerous it was to believe false comforts. Sleep was dangerous. He retreated behind the clarity of the lyrium song, leaving his expression impassive._ _“Thank you, no. That will be all,” he replied coolly._

 _The herbalist looked hurt. He turned away with a shake of his head. He offered a shrug to the anxious ship_ _’s captain as he returned to his cabin below deck. Perhaps he thought that he would receive retribution from the Chantry for driving a templar to such a level of apparent illness. The Chantry could see they never traded again if it so chose. But Cullen knew the fault was all his own weakness._

_The merchant ship was battered about the seas. A journey that should have taken no more than three days took almost four. The refugees soon learnt to avoid a fellow passenger who started at every sudden noise, whose staring eyes roved constantly for danger and who never ever turned his back on anyone. If pressed, they would have said the templar was perfectly polite when addressed and never actually did anything that gave them reason to be afraid. But they were afraid anyway. It was a politeness that concealed the danger of broken glass._

_There was a crate above deck that allowed him the shelter to prepare his lyrium in privacy the following day. He flatly refused to return to his cabin, relying on the strength and clarity offered by the draught to keep him awake._

_Sleep was dangerous. Sleep was where reality and dreams blurred. Sleep was where demons were strongest. But on the third night of the sea voyage, he couldn_ _’t keep his eyes open any longer. Slumped by his crate, out of the way of the crew, his eyes drooped. His terrified bark as he came lurching awake a mere half an hour later sent every crew member rushing to the railings, expecting to see a pirate ship on the horizon. The captain had approached him cautiously, hands raised in clear view. He dipped his head to indicate the four feet of razor sharp steel in Cullen’s easy grip. The sword was perfectly steady, ready for the killing blow, even if his free hand trembled like a leaf._

_“If you don’t mind, Ser Templar, I don’t think that’s necessary.” The captain waited for the nervous templar to sheathe his sword before lowering his hands and letting out a relieved exhalation. “It might be better to store the sword in your cabin.”_

_“No,” he snapped, panic rising. They had deprived him of his sword and armour in Greenfell. Left him as nothing but a hollow shell, defenceless, unable to do the very thing for which they had moulded him. They might not have returned his armour when he left, but he had flatly refused the idea of them keeping his sword. At least with that, he could pretend he was still half a templar._

_The captain sighed._ _“Maybe you should get some rest?”_

 _“I’m fine,” he snapped._ Maker forgive me. I am not fine.

 _It was a templar_ _’s duty to protect innocent civilians, not terrify them with screams. And Maker knew what could happen on cramped ship like this if a particularly bad nightmare sent him hunting for demons, sword in hand._

_“I prefer to be above deck, if you don’t mind, ser,” he replied tightly in response the captain’s questioning glance before slumping into the familiar supplicant’s posture in his corner of the deck. The captain knew better than to disturb a templar from his prayers._

_By the time Kirkwall came into view, Cullen was in the familiar shadow realm between sleeping and waking, unsure on which side he lay. The captain approached — slowly, and with time for Cullen to register his movements — and pointed out the towering bronze statues that flanked the entrance to the bay. Cullen managed to shake off some of his bone-deep fatigue to watch the salt-encrusted legs slide past on either side of the ship. Fat chains as wide as tree trunks bound them forever to their posts. Slaves with faces hidden from the freedom of the open sea. Kirkwall took no time at all in telling new arrivals why it was known as the City of Chains._

_Inside the bay, the seas stilled to glassy smoothness and Cullen_ _’s roiling stomach finally calmed. His destination was a hulking fortress standing alone in the waters, safely isolated from the city._

_The Gallows. A templar stronghold holding hundreds of mages and a small army of templars, far larger than Kinloch Hold. All under the watchful eyes of a Knight-Commander who reputedly knew what vigilance really meant._

_His first steps into the Gallows were confident, despite the crippling fatigue. In a way, Greagoir had been right. He_ had _found peace at Greenfell. But not in the purposelessness that had been forced on him there, amongst the unwelcome kindness of the Sisters and the absent-minded company of the lyrium-addled. Peace when he had been told he would be transferred to another Circle, another country, far from Kinloch Hold, far from a place that held only pain. A chance to atone for his weakness in the Circle Tower. He prayed never to see Ferelden again._

~~~~

The sea was far calmer than his journey to Kirkwall, but not settled by any stretch of the imagination. Cullen’s stomach lurched as they crested a particularly large swell, before calming again. It hadn’t strictly been sea sickness that struck him then, but it left him leery of travel by sea, with a nausea that was much the same as genuine seasickness in the end.

 _You are a different man to who you were then_ , he told himself. _Not healed and not a good man, perhaps, but different._

The heavy thud of footsteps behind Cullen forced him to turn away from the view and the recollections of his last journey by sea. His hand settled comfortably on the hilt of the sword at his hip without him truly realising.

"Shit, Knight-Commander. You've been up here since we left this morning. It's a little cold to be above deck, isn't it?"

Cullen frowned at the dwarf in front of him. Despite the complaint, his coat gaped open on a wide expanse of hairy chest.

"l enjoy the fresh air. And I’m no longer a member of the Order, let alone a Knight-Commander, Serah Tethras."

He felt a small thrill of fear and pleasure at the words. Every time he said it, it felt a little more real. It still felt like indulging desires, a weakness he still worked to crush entirely. But a demon could not twist this.

The dwarf shook his head. "l still can't believe a staunch templar like you would give up on the Order." He walked over to join Cullen at the railing. "I'll stop calling you Knight-Commander if you start calling me Varric."

Cullen responded with a brief dry chuckle and turned back to the view. To his gratified surprise, Varric didn't seem to want to talk any further. What little association he had had had with the dwarf in the past had been characterised by alternating attempts to exasperate and wheedle out information. But Varric just stared out in the direction where Kirkwall lay, an unreadable look on his face. Unlike Cullen, Varric was a prisoner in all but name, forced to leave his home and present his story to the Divine. What he saw in that view might be vastly different.

Varric propped his chin in his hand and sighed as the last of the sunlight slipped behind the horizon. Once, the lingering magical scars of the chantry explosion would have marked out the city well after it had faded from view with an unnatural red glow. Now, if Kirkwall had been visible, it was lost in the dark.

"Were you ready to leave?" Varric questioned curiously.

Cullen didn't need to think. He nodded firmly. "Yes. All of it."

Varric raised an eyebrow. "Ferelden might not be any better. There is a war on, you know."

"I was there during a Blight and the Circle..." he trailed off. He offered a small smile. There and gone. "It can't be worse."

Varric barked out an incredulous laugh. "Careful with that optimism, Curly, you might break something."

There was the irritating Varric that Cullen had expected and dreaded when he had been told they would be trapped on a ship together for two days. His wide grin suggested he thought life was one long joke. Cullen was inclined to agree with the sentiment. One at his expense. A demon was almost preferable company. At least no one would complain if he killed it.

His frown returned. "Dare l ask? Curly?"

Varric raised an abortive hand to indicate his own hair and shrugged.  "It fits. You don't want me to call you Knight-Commander, so you'll have to accept the nickname."

Cullen couldn't stop himself from echoing the move. Salt spray had turned the barely manageable curls into a stiff mass. He already knew that any attempt at control was futile.

"Maker give me strength," he sighed. "I knew a peaceful journey was too much to ask."

"Two weeks to enjoy the pleasure of my company.” Varric’s grin widened. “What could be better?"

"Varric!"

Varric winced in response to the sharp bark. "Miss me already, Seeker?" he called out.

There was an audible grunt of disgust. "I told you to fetch Commander Cullen, not to chat."

 Cullen snapped about and offered a sharp salute to the woman approaching from the stairs leading below deck. Marked by the scars of a life of hard service, Seeker Pentaghast was the kind of Seeker of Truth that any templar would dread crossing. Seekers were both hated and feared by the Order for the ultimate power they wielded over templars. His own relationship with her had started much as any templar's would. An interrogation, with the expectation that he would be dragged away in chains for his multitude of crimes. Instead, she had offered him a job. Naturally, he hadn't believed her. Two weeks of acquaintance was just enough to begin smoothing that antagonistic start.

"My apologies, Seeker Pentaghast," he offered, with a brief scowl for Varric.

She rolled her eyes. "I should not be surprised. No apology is necessary."

"Curly needed the peace and quiet. I know how much fun it is to be on the receiving end of one of your interrogations. Questions are asked. Books get stabbed..."

"Enough, Varric." It took visible effort for her to school herself back to calm. Cullen sympathised. He would have been tempted to say the same. She indicated the hatch leading below decks. "Please, Commander. There are matters we must discuss."

"There are," he agreed and led the way below. He offered a brief but fervent prayer of thanks when the expected panic didn’t make itself known beyond a familiar tightening of his shoulders. The passage below deck was far more spacious than his last ship. The cabins even had windows.

He settled himself in a seat facing the cabin door and clasped his hands. "You were understandably otherwise engaged in Kirkwall," he began once she joined him, "but I would appreciate a detailed accounting of the forces I can expect to find on our arrival in Haven."

She waved a dismissive hand. “Full introductions will be possible once we see the full extent of those who answered the Divine’s call. That is not what I intend to discuss. You requested privacy for your decision to stop taking lyrium. There are no templars on this ship. It seems a good time to discuss the process.”

“The process is quite simple,” he replied with finality. “I stop taking lyrium.”

She shook her head. “If only that were so. You will need to be weaned off gradually to minimise the risks. We can begin the process once we arrive in Haven.”

Cullen leaned back and folded his arms. “Absolutely not. I have already stopped. I took my last vial yesterday.”

“That was perhaps ... unwise, Commander,” she said with exaggerated care, as if speaking to a templar lost deep in the final stages of dementia. They were clearly not the words she meant. _Madness_ , her eyes said. “We have lyrium supplies on the other ship. It might be better to continue taking it until Haven. A controlled environment is safer.”

“With all due respect, Seeker, I needed lyrium out of my life,” he replied curtly. “I will not remain beholden to it any longer.”

She grabbed his wrist, too quickly for Cullen to react, and closed her eyes. He could almost feel the burn of the lyrium in his blood as it reacted to her probing. When he closed his own eyes, he heard its achingly beautiful melody. A little too quiet, but still there, granting clarity and strength. The thought of losing it sent a visceral fear through him, as much as he wished to be free.

“Lyrium pervades you as it does all templars. Not just what is carried in your blood. It is in your skin. Bones. Muscle,” she said, eyes still closed. “The concentration is to be expected given your age.” Her eyes opened. “Although perhaps less than I would expect for _you_. You were granted a permanent increase in your lyrium ration by Greenfell’s Revered Mother, were you not?”

“I was,” he replied guardedly. “After what I saw lyrium had done to the ‘retired’ templars there, I chose to disregard that instruction for many years.”

She laughed. “It seems there is more than a little demonstration of a rebellious streak in your service, despite all the indicators to suggest your loyalty.”

He snatched his hand away. “I _am_ loyal, Seeker. Have no fear of that. Some might argue I have been blinded by loyalty in the past. But there are times when my convictions have outweighed what might have been seen as good sense by some,” he allowed.

“That instinct has served you well.” She grabbed his wrist again. His skin burned again where her fingers pressed. “But there is still much lyrium in you. This will be a hard process. Having forsaken lyrium entirely, you must expect-”

“I know what to expect,” he replied brusquely. “I have experienced it before.”

“In Kinloch Hold,” she stated. “So I gathered.”

He nodded wordlessly, unwilling to risk speaking. At the time, it had all blended into one interminable day. Greagoir hadn’t wanted to tell him how long it had been. But it was impossible to keep the information hidden forever. Almost three weeks. Three weeks that had left a permanent scar on his mind.

“This will be different. You are older. Lyrium has long since tied itself to every fibre of your being. Even if you survive the first stage, some of those symptoms may be permanent or reoccur at unpredictable intervals. Truthfully, I have never seen anyone do this willingly. This will be as new for me as it is for you.”

Cullen’s free hand clenched into a fist. “I can endure it.”

“We have a two week journey ahead of us,” she replied, releasing his wrist. “I will monitor your progress, but the symptoms will strike before we could reach Haven. I would suggest we wait two weeks in Highever to allow you time to work through the initial withdrawal.”

“I would rather we not delay.”

She rolled her eyes. “I imagine you will come to regret that request. Fine. There are a number of settlements around Lake Calenhad. We will rest there.” She glowered when Cullen took in a breath to raise another protest. “If necessary.”

Cullen closed his eyes briefly. Of course their route would go around Lake Calenhad. The Imperial Highway around its borders was the fastest route to the Frostback mountains from Highever. “So be it, Seeker Pentaghast. But it won’t be necessary,” he added stubbornly.

She didn’t grace the claim with anything more than a long-suffering groan. “You will tell me as soon as the first symptoms make themselves known.” She pushed herself up from the chair. “Get some rest, Commander. You will need it.”

He ignored her suggestion. A seeker didn’t strictly hold the right of command over him any longer, and he might as well indulge this supposed rebellious streak. With a brief sigh of relief he retreated back above deck. The sun had long since set, providing an unbroken view of the wide expanse of stars strewn across the sky. Kirkwall had been far too built up to ever see so much open sky, and the times when he had had the opportunity to leave Kirkwall for an extended period had been vanishingly small. The open air and sky was far better than returning to the cabin he shared with Varric.

Dawn found him kneeling at the ship’s stern, head bowed over his clasped hands. Faith — much as most other aspects of his life — had always been a private matter for him. It had made an upbringing in the communal barracks of the Templar Order monastery in Denerim difficult at first. Nothing was private there. But his time as a senior officer in a religious order followed by a period as Kirkwall’s most senior Andrastian authority had forced him to accept that privacy in faith was not always possible. Thankfully none of the crew even batted an eyelid. It was a Chantry ship. It was probably relatively muted as far as a show of faith went. He had known Mothers who would have forced all the crew to join their prayers.

Cassandra joined him for a brief stretch, bringing a brief admonishment for ignoring her instruction to rest. She departed with another instruction to eat something.

The thought of food sent nausea worming into Cullen’s gut. He lurched to his feet and leaned over the ship’s side. He watched the steely waves rush past the ship’s side in the vain hope it would help ease the nausea. Until the ship cut through a particularly large wave, throwing up a burst of spray. It glowed brilliant blue where it caught the winter sunshine. Cullen tottered, clutching at the railing for stability as a cold sweat broke out on his forehead.

“Maker give me strength,” he muttered and stumbled across the deck to find a seat that offered him a view of the horizon without actually seeing the waters as more than a wrinkled grey sheet.

At some point, Varric joined him above deck again, this time clutching a notebook in one hand and food and a canteen in another. He sat next to Cullen where he had slumped on the bench, head resting against the wall behind him and desperately trying to ignore the incessant rocking.

Varric offered a hunk of bread. “You didn’t join us for the meal.”

Cullen blanched. “Thank you, but I’d rather not.”

The dwarf offered a sympathetic grimace. “Seasickness?”

“Something like that,” Cullen replied tightly. He claimed the proffered canteen of water instead and drained every last drop. Thirst burned at the back of his throat. His fingernails itched. He hadn’t even know that was possible.

“Thirsty?” he chuckled.

Cullen gave him a black stare and swallowed back bile. “Go away, Varric.”

An exaggerated look of hurt crossed Varric’s face. “I’m wounded, Curly.”

He spared a disgusted look for the notebook in Varric’s hand. “Maker’s breath. I hope you don’t intend to make another story out of this. You said the last one would be accurate.”

“You read it? I'm honoured. Anyway, it was accurate,” Varric replied. “I just picked the parts that made for the most interesting story. The seeker seemed to enjoy it anyway.”

“I’m sure she did,” Cullen replied sarcastically. He winced as his gut clenched. “Do you want something?”

“You could use the company.”

“Right,” Cullen sighed, too nauseous to contemplate arguing further. _This will be a long two weeks._

Varric settled a little more comfortably on the bench and began scribbling in his notebook, taking occasional bites from the chunk of bread in his hand. Ten years of isolation — self-imposed as much as an inevitable result of a command position in the intensely hierarchical Order — left him unable to interpret Varric’s intentions. When an idle question from Varric was met with nothing but a pained grunt, the dwarf chose to avoid speaking any further. But he didn’t leave, and Cullen didn’t dare risk moving until his head stopped spinning.

A shout from the crow’s nest signalled the first sighting of the Ferelden coastline. Varric wandered over to the railing. After a moment, Cullen reluctantly joined him too. He had been so eager to leave Ferelden ten years ago. Even now, he was reluctant to return. There was a lot of pain held here. Still, perhaps it was necessary to return to the source to find his redemption.

By late afternoon, chalky cliffs had drawn a thick white band across the sky. Castle Cousland — part stronghold, part noble seat of Highever’s Teyrn — perched on top, presiding over the wide expanse of sea. He could just pick out the tiny banners snapping in wind. It was a far more cheerful welcome than a visitor’s first sight of Kirkwall. Directly ahead of the ship, the cliffs drooped down into Highever’s sheltered cove and its bustling heart of trade. Soon, Cullen could pick out individual buildings and the tall masts of trade ships crowding around the docks. In what seemed like no time at all, the chantry ship had settled smoothly into a reserved berth at the centre of Highever’s docks. The ship gave one last shudder as it was tied down and the gangplank was lowered.

Varric slapped Cullen on the back, wincing at the impact. “Welcome home, Curly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve read my previous fic, you may have noticed that I have too much fun with flashbacks. As much as I would love to have more of Kinloch Hold, it was pretty thoroughly covered there. These flashbacks will typically focus on other events, although there may be a few Kinloch Hold segments. There may also be moments of unashamed plagiarism from my own fics to feed into some of the flashbacks I have planned.


	2. Highever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen sees Ferelden for the first time in ten years.

Highever

11 Haring 9:40 Dragon  


On his first visit to Highever, Cullen had still borne the gaping wounds of his time in Kinloch Hold. The Circle Tower had demanded vigilance against the constant fear of a magical threat, but it had been an incredibly controlled environment, if not as controlled as Cullen had wanted. Greenfell had been sedate, with a predictable schedule for its residents. The bustle of a major port city was none of those things. In the midst of the Blight, Highever had been a barely-contained chaos of dockworkers, citizens and refugees. With too many people and too many open avenues of attack to watch, he had seen everything and therefore seen nothing.

This time, with the wounds as healed as could be expected, he could take in the city for what it was. It was grubby, noisy, chaotic, and completely and utterly Fereldan. He felt an unexpected pang of yearning for the familiar. No one could mistake the sturdy wood and plaster buildings for anything other than a Fereldan city. Kirkwall might have had a large population of Fereldan refugees, but it hadn’t been Ferelden. He had been so glad to be gone that he hadn’t allowed himself to miss his home country. The sights and sounds, even the smells were ones he had thought lost to lyrium or drowned behind his duty.

The comfort of familiarity faded quickly to leave him with nothing but thirst and a headache.  _You aren_ _’t the person who would have called this place home any more_ , he thought grimly. Maybe there was a place for a tired and scarred templar trying to atone for his past and to break the chains that weighed him down, but he doubted that was here. He prayed he had found that by following the Divine’s call.

He forgot all that unease when he staggered off the ship onto blessedly solid and stable ground. If the ever-observant Varric hadn’t been close on his heels, he might well have kissed the grimy wood of the dock. Two journeys by sea was enough for a lifetime.

He was given little time to simply be a Fereldan returning to his half-forgotten homeland. The second ship slid into place beside the first. His commander’s mask fell back into place. Duty had been and still was everything, even if he had taken the step to choose what form that duty should take. These people had elected to join him. Now he had a responsibility to see that they were cared for properly.

Every single mage from Kirkwall had elected to leave. The Gallows had barely been a Circle by that point anyway, but it had been a welcome death knell for the cursed place. Barely twenty mages and tranquil in all, and many of them apprentices. The annulment of Kirkwall’s Circle was a crime for which he would never be able to atone. The least he could do was ensure that those who remained were well treated.

The templars who had decided to join him were hardly more numerous. Only a single squad had been left behind in Kirkwall to protect the temporary chantry. They were tiny fragments of what had been the most powerful chapter of the Templar Order outside Orlais a mere three years ago. The rest had died or deserted. Or worse, become corrupted as Knight-Commander Meredith had been. It was far too easy for a belief in their divine right to lead them astray.

If his own disembarkation had gone unremarked, the arrival of a small cadre of templars and mages drew every eye on the docks. A silent hush fell for a moment. People had always been cautious around Circle mages, even in relaxed Ferelden, but now the Sword of Mercy made people just as wary. Most casualties of the war were mages or templars, but civilians had been killed for nothing more than a perceived slight against a mage or suspicions of apostasy from a templar. People were afraid of extremists on both sides, not to mention the old fears of abominations or maleficarum. Was the mage a loyalist, a libertarian, or an apostate out for vengeance? Was the templar a Chantry faithful, a follower of the Lord Seeker, or a renegade out for blood? In Kirkwall, they had been too busy rebuilding to pay attention to the war outside their city. Here, he could see in person the distrust it had bred. It left Cullen disgusted by how far the Order had fallen all over again.

The templars stepped off the ship first. Cullen nodded in approval as they fanned out to provide a cordon, eyes on the crowds around them as much as the mages behind them. These were the templars most devoted to their rediscovered role as protectors rather than jailers. Or at the very least, the ones least likely to complain about following his orders.

The mages were more cautious to take their first steps into a new country. Even the tranquil were wary. After years of being plagued by blood mages and the chantry explosion, anti-mage sentiment was high in Kirkwall. Angry mobs had assaulted the Gallows more than once in its wake and had needed to be fended off by those templars left to him. These mages had never left their Circle, let alone their city-state.

He strode up to the cordon, praying he looked steadier on his feet than he felt. He felt a momentary longing for the armour the others wore. That armour had given him a certainty of purpose for so long. A noble knight, champion of the just. If only it had been true.

“Knight-Captain, no problems on your journey, I hope?”

The man removed his helm and smoothed back strands of greying hair. “Nothing unexpected, Knight-Commander.” He cast a resentful look at another templar in the cordon and brushed at a stain on his robes. On closer observation, the indicated templar seemed to be swaying slightly. “Ser Elaine has discovered that sea travel does not agree with her.”

“Just Commander, now,” Cullen corrected absently. His gut clenched in nauseous sympathy for Elaine’s plight. “And the mages?”

Karellian nodded in the direction of a mage nervously smoothing her robes. The woman — spokesperson for what was left of Kirkwall’s mages — returned the nod and offered one to Cullen. He winced as his throbbing headache protested the movement.

“Enchanter Jeane wants to speak to you before we leave for Haven, Commander. Otherwise, anxious, but no problems. The apprentices kept quiet.” Karellian actually deigned to look pleased for a moment. Most of the apprentices were overdue for their Harrowings, but there were a few younger ones. Overseeing unruly youths was hard enough. Overseeing unruly young apprentices with poor control over their magic was the bane of any templar’s life, especially when they sneezed frost or hadn’t yet learned that setting a friend’s clothing on fire was not an acceptable use of their power. Even a strict Circle like the Gallows had never been able to prevent those inevitable incidents. “The mages are still arguing about who will represent the Gallows at the conclave and who will stay with us,” he added irritably.

“They've had weeks to decide,” Cullen sighed.

Karellian’s shrug spoke volumes. In the Circle, arguments were how decisions were made. Templars were taught that overwrought mages were dangerous mages. But veterans of the Circle knew when to let an argument run its course and when to step in before it grew dangerously heated. In the Order, it was far simpler. You simply followed your commanding officer’s decisions. Cullen winced internally. He might not be the best example of that, having helped kill his own commanding officer.

“Maker willing, that will be the worst of our problems on this journey,” Cullen said in response to the resigned shrug. He glanced over Karellian’s shoulders to the busy streets beyond, automatically scanning for threats. There was no fighting engrained habits. The less time out in the open, the better. “Get the mages to the hostelry. We will continue our journey at dawn tomorrow.”

 Knight-Captain Karellian might not be a particularly empathetic man, but that was hardly unique amongst senior templars, particularly at the Gallows. He could be trusted to ensure that his charges were safe. With a brief salute, he marshalled his templars, chivvied wide-eyed mages in the right direction, and parted the crowds ahead of them with practised ease.

And again, Cullen found himself without anything to do. He wasn’t a Knight-Commander any more. There was no Circle or chapter of Templars to run. He didn’t have the endless list of tasks which had characterised his last seventeen years. He was just left to his own devices. He felt lost without the Order defining his every waking moment.

“Maker give me strength,” he muttered as he tried to knead away the headache lurking behind his temples. “How do people do this?”

He wondered idly whether he should try and re-familiarise himself with his home country. It might help him feel less ill at ease. Or perhaps it was better to simply resign himself to feeling out of place and follow the others to the hostelry.

“Care to show me the sights of Ferelden, Curly?”

With his back to the dwarf, Cullen was free to roll his eyes. “I doubt I would make a particularly good guide. I’ve spent a third of my life in Kirkwall.”

“Commander,” the seeker called. “I must ensure our horses are prepared for tomorrow. See that Varric doesn’t sneak off.”

Cullen could sense Varric’s wide grin without even needing to see it. He turned to face her. At least it gave him a task to fill the time before their departure tomorrow. “Of course, Seeker Pentaghast.”

She paused at the foot of the gangplank. Her professional expression dissolved into something vaguely uncomfortable. “Cassandra. I am no longer your superior. We are colleagues.”

“Seeker works just fine for me,” Varric interjected.

She grunted. “The offer is not for you, Varric.”

Cullen eyed her warily. The idea of such informality with a seeker was unthinkable. “Of course, Lady Cassandra.”

She rolled her eyes. “That will suffice, I suppose.” She tilted her head to indicate a sheltered corner of the jetty. “A moment, if you please.” She grabbed his wrist again when they were out of Varric’s sight and closed her eyes. “Symptoms?”

“I am not an invalid,” he protested irritably.

She opened her eyes briefly and scowled at him. “Not yet. You forced me to abide by your decision, now you will abide by my rules.”

Cullen grimaced, but relented. “A little nausea. I am not one for travel by sea. Headache.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Thirst?”

He nodded reluctantly. He had almost forgotten that particular symptom until she brought it up. “Yes, but manageable.”

She nodded. “Your progress is as expected. You will be fine for today.” She led the way back onto the docks. “See that you eat something, Commander,” she called out. “I will meet you at the hostelry.”

She disappeared into the milling crowds, with a final stern glance for Varric. He returned it with an innocent smile.

“So, Curly, it seems you’re stuck with me. Where to?”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen muttered. “I-”

His mind shuddered to a halt at a familiar tinkle from a little further down the docks. How many times had he heard the same sound in the Gallows? Supplies being unloaded from the ships under the watchful eyes of Cassandra’s troops. Lyrium supplies. He closed his eyes. It was too far away to hear the song, but he could swear he heard it calling him anyway. Ten years of daily lyrium use. His hands had itched to prepare a draught to accompany the dawn. _Two days. Maker give me strength_ , he prayed despairingly.

Varric poked him in the ribs. “Hey, Curly, don’t fall asleep on me. I heard the Seeker mention food. You’re buying.”

Cullen exhaled out his tension and cast an irritable look at the dwarf. Anything to keep him quiet. He rolled his shoulders, missing the heavy weight of his armour all over agaon. Civilian dress left him feeling unpleasantly light and unprotected. “Fine. We’ll head to the hostelry.”

“Not a chance,” Varric laughed. “This is our last look at civilisation for days. If I’m going to be dragged away from Kirkwall, I want to eat at a proper tavern, not a Chantry hostelry.”

He let the dwarf lead the way, with a brief prayer that Varric’s definition of a ‘proper’ tavern was something a little better than the Hanged Man.  Such a place was surely unique to Kirkwall.

Thankfully, Highever seemed to be lacking anything of that calibre. Varric settled himself in a booth of a tavern that was both quiet enough to grant privacy and busy enough to grant anonymity. He gave Varric a sidelong glance when he even allowed Cullen the seat with the best sight lines. It wasn’t the first time he had noted that the dwarf was unpleasantly observant.

When a plate of hearty Fereldan stew was set down in front of him, his stomach clenched again, as if rebelling against that scrap of the familiar. It would undoubtedly be better than the fare served in the Gallows, or over-spiced Kirkwall cuisine, but the thought of food left him nauseous. He managed to force down a bite or two before his stomach threatened to rebel completely. With a sigh, he drained the mug of water in a vain attempt to ease his thirst.

Varric gestured with his spoon towards Cullen’s own bowl. “I thought you Fereldans were supposed to love food like this. I’m sure you templars would love to try, but you can’t live on the Chant.”

Cullen rolled his eyes at the mothering tone. “Perhaps later.”

Varric shrugged and dug his spoon back into his bowl. “Hawke was always complaining about how she could never find any good food in Kirkwall. We spent an entire week scouring Lowtown for a genuine Fereldan tavern. Apparently that means overcooked stew and lots of cheese. Not even the fancy Orlesian cheese.”

Cullen smirked despite himself. “Surely better than what they serve in Kirkwall.”

Varric raised an eyebrow. “Andraste’s ass, like you’d know. I’m pretty sure templars only eat gruel and hardtack. No wonder you were all in such a bad mood.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow at the mild blasphemy before sobering. “You’re not too far off,” he replied quietly. After the chantry explosion, when the Gallows had had no money, good food had been a luxury. Every spare coin had been reserved for the extortionate lyrium bill.

Varric’s expression darkened too. It was the expression that every survivor had when reminded of the grim days following the explosion. He changed the subject quickly, cheerfully telling story after story of his and Hawke’s exploits in Kirkwall. He didn’t seem too bothered that Cullen barely paid attention, apart from the odd grimace at references to her status as an apostate. She might have hidden herself from the Order for almost three years, but she clearly hadn’t been shy about using her magic out of templars’ view. Instead, Cullen tried reconcile himself with his return to a country he had once prayed never to see again.

When they were done and it came time to pay, Cullen extracted his coin purse. He reflexively shifted out of the way when Varric attempted to grab his arm to stop him.

“What?” he growled.

“You don’t have very much coin, do you?” Varric asked suspiciously.

“I am - was - a templar. We’re hardly well remunerated. The Maker provides,” he replied dryly.

“You were a Knight-Commander for three years,” he responded incredulously. “Surely they get a decent amount?”

“Less than you might expect. And I was a Knight-Commander in a city with no chantry,” Cullen responded. “I haven’t received a stipend since the explosion.”

“Let me guess, your sword is the most expensive thing you own?”

Cullen looked down at the sword and ran his gloved fingers over the worn grip, feeling the familiar ridges and bumps. With a Sword of Mercy on the pommel and engraved fragments of the Chant along the blade, he was marked out as a senior templar to those who recognised such things. A more knowledgeable student of weaponry would recognise the truncated hilt as a Free Marches design. Thankfully, not many were observant enough to spot the smaller clues the identified him despite his anonymous attire. Leaving his armour behind had been a necessary step in separating himself from the Order, but leaving his sword behind would have left him feeling naked and defenceless. It was a feeling he would prefer to avoid experiencing again.

“Strictly, I don’t own it any more than most of my other possessions. It’s a Templar Order-issued weapon. Lyrium-infused steel forged by a tranquil in the Gallows’ armoury. It could purchase all my personal belongings many times over.”

It was impossible to avoid the pride he felt in a weapon that had served him well for years. In the hands of an experienced templar, it was an extension of their abilities. No templar would willingly exchange a lyrium-steel weapon for conventional steel. It would have been worth every coin he had, if anything to a similar standard could have been found anywhere outside a Circle. Unfortunately, only tranquil or dwarves could forge with lyrium without risking harm, and only the Chantry had legal access to a sufficient quantity of the substance.

Varric chuckled. “Anyone who tries to mug you is going to have a doubly bad day. I’ll pay. I can probably even convince the Seeker to reimburse me.”

Cullen leaned back and narrowed his eyes. “Why are you doing this, Varric?”

“What, paying for a meal? Doesn’t the Maker strike down those who steal coin from his sworn templars, or something?”

“Ex-templar. Not just paying. All of it. I can count on one hand the number of times we spoke in Kirkwall. You shouldn’t feel obligated to be a friend just because we’re travelling together.”

“Look,” Varric sighed. He began to toy with his empty bowl, avoiding Cullen’s eyes. “Kirkwall owes you. The Order didn’t have to help, but you rallied them and helped pull the city back to its feet. No one could have stopped you if you had decided to make yourself Viscount, but you handed the control back to us.”

“Of course I had to help,” Cullen stated flatly. “Even if I wasn’t partially at fault, anyone in the Order would be duty-bound to do the same.”

“You know that’s not true. The fact that templars are running around waving their swords at anyone who looks at them funny proves that.” He pushed the bowl to one side. “And you know what? Forget Kirkwall. _I_ owe you on Hawke’s behalf. I know you would have taken her to the Circle if you could. But you sided with her against Meredith, you let her become a viscountess, and then you didn’t even stop her from running.”

Cullen frowned. It was just like Varric’s tale of Hawke’s exploits. He crafted the truth to tell the story he wanted. “I didn’t _let_ her run. Renegade templars in the city attacked her and forced her out.”

“Don’t give me that,” Varric scoffed. “I know she came to speak to you that night. She was alone and injured in the Gallows. You’re a templar. You could easily have stopped her if you’d wanted.”

“That’s not entirely inaccurate, I suppose,” Cullen allowed reluctantly. That particular fact had certainly irritated Cassandra.

“So why didn’t you? You obviously don’t trust mages.”

“True,” he acknowledged. “Although that’s not unique to mages. I don’t trust you any more than I trust her.” Varric shrugged and smiled widely at that, as if he agreed with the sentiment.

Cullen hesitated a moment to gather his thoughts. There was a large part of him that still felt guilt at allowing an apostate so much leeway. Conflicting instincts created by all he had been taught and seen still fought inside him. It had seemed the only right thing to do at the time. Or at least, less wrong. A slightly lighter shade of grey was the best he could hope to achieve these days. Letting one apostate go wasn't what would condemn him to the void.

“Hawke put herself at risk to help the Order, even knowing how dangerous that was for an apostate in Kirkwall," he said finally. "She understood the Order’s values better than we did by that point. She wanted to protect _all_ people and stop a war, not perpetuate the conflict. I didn’t need to trust her to respect that.”

Varric grunted contemplatively. “There’s your answer, Curly. Maybe I actually don’t mind being a friend. Whatever you did or didn’t do in Kirkwall, you’re not as bad as you think.”

Cullen shook his head. “I’d like to believe that.”

The smile that Varric turned on Cullen had the barest touch of melancholy. He wondered for a moment if Varric felt the same guilt at failing to stop Anders to which Hawke had admitted. Maybe both he and Varric were looking for redemption here. Varric could have run too.

Varric dropped a scatter of coins on the table and leapt up from his seat. “Time to see what Hawke thought was so great about Ferelden.” He frowned as he reached up to pat the empty space at his back. “I wish the Seeker had let me keep Bianca.” He grinned at Cullen’s nonplussed look. “My crossbow,” he explained.

“Maker’s breath. Why am I not surprised that you named your crossbow?” Cullen replied with a shake of his head.

With a start, he realised that he had no idea whether the concern was justified. In Kirkwall, it would have been. Whether it was a blood mage or the countless gangs, even Hightown hadn't been entirely safe. But his own experience of Fereldan cities was limited to the few times the older templar recruits had been given a free day to wander around Denerim. Templar training facilities were otherwise little more than isolated monasteries and as a rank-and-file templar, he might never have left his Circle. He knew Kirkwall better than he did his own country. It hadn’t been home, but it been his city for his entire adult life.

They emerged back into the quiet street, half-timbered buildings looming overhead. Further down the street, the pitched roofs of two buildings almost met over the middle, creating a sheltered avenue where snow hadn’t been able to gather. Certainly not Kirkwall. No gang members lurking in the doorways either.

Varric made off in a direction that would eventually take them to the hostelry. “So, Curly, did you grow up in a place like this?”

“Not even remotely. I lived in a small farming village in the south before I moved to a templar facility in Denerim.”

“A farmer? Hmm. Can’t say I expected that,” Varric mused. He gave Cullen a measuring look, as if trying to fit this new piece of information against what little he already knew. “I suppose there is a little rural Fereldan behind that Chantry-educated accent.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. It had taken some time for his fellow recruits to get used to that fact too. Most of them had been the younger children of nobles given to the Chantry at a young age, or Chantry orphans. He had joined at a far older age than the others in his cohort, and he had certainly been the only one from a rural area.

“So I’ve been told.”

“I’m surprised anyone would bring it up. Don’t take any offence, but you don’t seem like the approachable type, being a scary commanding officer and all.”

“It was a long time ago,” Cullen said distantly, eyes focusing somewhere in the middle distance.

Beval Stratholt. Fourth son of a minor Bann given to the chantry before his tenth year. He had been with the Order for five years by the time Cullen joined. Even then, Cullen had been an intensely reserved and private person, but Beval had been his closest friend right from his first days as a recruit. After their initiation, they had both been awarded prestigious assignments to the Circle at Kinloch Hold.

Beval had been killed by an Arcane Horror during the breaking of the tower, inches from where Cullen had been standing. Pounding helplessly on the magical barrier that imprisoned him, it might as well have been an ocean away. Beval’s corpse had been left to rot beside Cullen in his prison, until his features had bloated beyond recognition.

His breath caught. He could swear for a moment that he saw the body slumped in a doorway. His boot splashed through a puddle of blood.

“You’re not looking great, Curly,” Varric said with a concerned frown.

Cullen blinked, cold sweat prickling on his forehead. He suddenly felt intensely thirsty. The slumped body resolved into nothing but a trick of light and shadow on a pile of dirty snow, the creeping pool of blood nothing but a puddle of meltwater. He eased his aching fingers from their tight grip around the hilt of his sword.

“I’m fine.” He glared as Varric’s concern remained. “I’m _fine_ , Serah Tethras.”

“Alright,” Varric said, raising his hands defensively. “So. Rural Ferelden. It must have been years since you last saw your family. You should visit them some time.”

“My name is not a popular one. I would rather avoid attracting attention to them.”

He had told Mia where he was going and why. Doubtless she would be disappointed that he had made no suggestion of visiting, but that was hardly new. He hadn’t seen them since he had joined the Order seventeen years ago. Templars were expected to cut ties to anything but the Order and the Maker, although many still sent coin home for family. Unswerving loyalty to the Chantry and the Chantry alone. He had done his best to follow that. But even now that he was attempting to shake those chains, he couldn’t face letting his family see the man he was now. That South Reach was in the opposite direction to Haven was a convenient defence.

Varric raised an eyebrow that said he saw right through the excuse. “Surely you can-”

“No!” he snapped with enough glacial cold to match the frosty air. The flare of anger faded almost immediately.  “My apologies. I would prefer to avoid speaking about my past.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes against the glare of sun on snow. Cassandra had said he would be fine for today, but the splitting headache was certainly irritating. It was only going to get worse, might as well get used to it now.

Varric waved the apology away. “Fair enough. You can hear all about mine instead.”

By the time Varric’s meandering route led them to the hostelry, Cullen’s eyelids felt like they had been weighted down with steel bars. Lyrium had done much to keep him functional during the regular stretches when he went without sleep. It had seen him through four days straight after the Kirkwall chantry had been destroyed. But it turned out that even one night without sleep was more of a challenge without lyrium’s strength and clarity. Perhaps Cassandra had been sensible to suggest he get some rest on the ship, but he had no regrets at avoiding a night in the cramped confines of his cabin.

He forced himself to some approximation of wakefulness before he walked through the hostelry doors, once again donning the impassive commander’s mask.

The contrast between the fading light outside and the bright common room was dramatic. The people inside had split into painfully distinct groups across the rows of tables for their evening meal. Kirkwall mages clustered together in the far corner, at the opposite end of a long table to the tranquil. That was followed by an informal but still obvious barrier of Kirkwall Knights-Templar at the next table and the four officers at a table beyond that. The men Cassandra had brought with her were gathered at a fourth and fifth table. The few civilians making use of the Chantry hostelry had clustered as far away from them all as possible. Cullen sighed. All the old divisions were hardly going to be broken in a day. It seemed there was a lot of work to be done to form a cohesive and united force.

He listened to a brief uneventful update from Karellian — rooms had been assigned, watch rotations set, supplies stored securely — before joining Cassandra where she sat at a table alone. He might not be a Knight-Commander any longer, but the divisions of rank were thoroughly engrained. She gave him a piercing look that took in his paleness and saw right through the professional mask to the slightly glazed look beyond. With Varric there at the table with them, she could do nothing more than raise an eyebrow and shove a bowl of stew and hunk of bread in his direction.

The nausea had gone thanks to the return to solid ground, but his appetite hadn’t yet made a reappearance. Still, he found himself devouring every scrap. Grudgingly, he admitted to himself that it did help. And better, the half-forgotten flavours of simple Fereldan fare had ever so slightly dimmed his feeling of being out of place.

Enchanter Jeane wandered over to him when the meal was done, watched with instinctive vigilance by the Knights-Templar gossiping at their table. Like anyone from the Gallows, she looked worn and older than her years. But she held herself more lightly now that Kirkwall had been left behind.

“Ser Cullen," she addressed him tentatively. "I suppose that is still the correct title?”

“It is, Enchanter Jeane,” he acknowledged as she sat down opposite him. His resignation had been named retirement as a concession to the Chantry. The knighthood remained. “Is there something you need?”

“We’ve been discussing what happens once we reach Haven. I am of the opinion that someone there needs to speak for what was left of the Kirkwall Circle, and it seems that someone will be me.”

He nodded. “Someone needs to be a voice against the dangers of unchecked power.”

He stepped delicately around the subject of the Kirkwall Circle's annulment. Blood was on his hands. Maker knew how any of them were willing to talk to him. Maker knew why Cassandra thought he was a wise choice to join a reconciliatory force.

“Auber intends to join the Divine’s force, if you’ll have him. The rest of us are still undecided."

Cullen’s gaze drifted over to Auber, an elven mage with almost waif-like delicacy that left him dwarfed whenever he stood next to a templar. But like any mage, appearances were deceptive. Auber was a powerful Force mage who would have rapidly risen to the position of Senior Enchanter in any Circle. Conveniently, he had shown himself very capable of teaching the few newly-awoken mages the Gallows had accumulated since the chantry explosion. Kirkwall had been a dangerous place to be a mage, albeit a different kind of danger following the chantry explosion. Auber had done what he could to keep the new apprentices happy and help them forget the vitriol and distrust they had received from the city they'd once called home.

“The Divine intends for this to be a mixed force,” Cullen replied. “He would be an asset.”

“He’ll be glad to hear it.” She fiddled with a loose thread on her sleeve before glancing up uncomfortably. “Whatever results from this conclave, there is no going back to the Gallows for any of us.”

Cullen exhaled. He wasn't quite sure what to think of the comment, having tended to Kirkwall's Circle for ten years. Relief might have been most accurate. The Gallows was a monument to how corrupt the Order had become.

“I can’t say I’m surprised to hear that. I would have found you all a place in a safe Circle if that had been an option. Now I suppose it’s the conclave that will decide what is to happen.”

“You’re not going to stop us?” she asked with surprise.

“Will you still accept our protection for your journey to Haven?”

“If you’re willing,” she replied sheepishly. “I’ve lived in the Circle since I was six. I’m not sure I could lead us all the way through a foreign country.”

“Then no, I won’t stop you,” he replied evenly, trying to avoid showing just how uncomfortable the concept of unsupervised mages had made him. He wasn’t entirely sure that trust was possible for him any more. “The Circles have fallen. I'd have strongly recommended against travelling alone, given how many rebel templars there are in Ferelden. But if I tried to stop you, I'd be no better than them."

A small relieved smile crossed her face. “Thank you.”

"And the tranquil?"

She looked mildly discomfited. "Ah... I hadn't thought to ask."

"I'll ask them when we arrive in Haven."

She stood with a grateful nod. “Good night, Ser Cullen.”

Cullen sighed and kneaded his forehead. The same old decisions and concerns had chased him out of Kirkwall. The mages still saw him as the Knight-Commander, just as he saw himself that way. The Order had defined who he was and strived to be since he was eight. That duty was all he had allowed of himself for years. He had been so utterly certain of what duty meant once. Now? He wasn't sure, but he wanted something better. If the Maker was feeling kind, he might even find it, although history wouldn't suggest that he hadn't earned that kindness. He prayed he hadn’t taken the risk of following his own desires only to find that he had been nothing more than hollow armour emblazoned with the Sword of Mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've dug a few minor templar characters out of my previous fic. Knight-Captain Karellian (once a Knight-Lieutenant) is one of them. 
> 
> As much fun as it is to write post-Kirkwall Cullen, I miss writing about the Templar Order already. I find templars absolutely fascinating as characters, so I welcome any recommendations for any Templar-centric fics out there.


	3. Blue Haze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey from Highever is more difficult than Cullen expects.

Highever

12 Haring 9:40 Dragon  


Cullen woke abruptly, a few hours before dawn. First, he became aware of surroundings, dimly lit by light leaking in from under the room’s door. That led to a brief few moments of panic when nothing matched his usual markers. There was nothing familiar here. It was only full wakefulness that returned the memory of where he was to him before he went for his sword.

He offered a brief prayer of thanks. As far as his sleep went, it had almost been peaceful. His dreams hadn’t even warranted being called a nightmare. He could only hope the rest of the journey was as blessed. There was even less privacy in a tent than a hostelry.

The wakefulness brought unwelcome companions. Burning thirst and a headache that was surely worse than the one he had had when he retired for the night. Three days without lyrium.

No point in sleeping further, not with that number spinning around his head. Running through a few sword drills in the hostelry’s courtyard would provide a better distraction. It would serve as good practice to remind his body that he was currently unarmoured and without a shield. The difference it would make to his movements was not insignificant. If nothing else, it would be peaceful at this time of night. Better than the low-lying tension raised by listening to the incessant creaks and movements of the hostelry’s guests and templars on watch.

The guard on watch offered nothing more than a salute as Cullen left his room. Every templar in Kirkwall was aware of his odd sleeping habits.

The air in the courtyard was bitingly cold without the winter sunlight to warm the air. The crisp air, laden with that uniquely Fereldan atmosphere that an Orlesian would call wet dog, was enough to mute his headache to nothing more than a dull throb.

Combat drills were almost meditative in their execution. Longsword. Sword-and-shield. Greatsword. Even polearms. The steps and parries and thrusts were engrained enough in his muscles that he barely needed to do more than focus on his measured breathing and heart rate.

After Kinloch Hold, he had thrown himself into practising his combat skills, first to regain lost strength, then to hone those skills until he would never be caught defenceless again. It had been the closest his fractured mind could find to serenity. The fractures had been hidden as best as could be expected, but the serenity found in those familiar steps had remained. It was almost enough to help forget the itch behind his eyes.

Cassandra found him in hostelry’s courtyard watching the sunrise through gaps in the buildings. Cullen stilled his hands when she raised a knowing eyebrow at the unconscious clenching and unclenching of his fists.

“Cold hands?”

“Yes,” he replied in a tone that made it clear he would rather not discuss the subject further.

When Cassandra’s back was turned, he held his hands out in front of himself, then breathed a sigh of relief when they remained steady. It didn’t matter that they had been steady during his drills earlier, he knew he would be obsessively checking time and again over the next few days.

Conveniently, his position outside had kept him far from where the other templars would now be taking their daily lyrium. They might take their lyrium in private, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be aware of it happening.

In less time than he had expected, everyone was mounted and supplies for the journey were squared away. The mages — having understandably never been taught to ride — had been settled into a wagon.

They rode through the streets of Highever until the last homes petered out, leaving the smooth surface of the Imperial Highway stretching out ahead of them. Lingering early morning mist filled the open spaces between patches of woodland in pools of grey as dull as the clouded sky. He had hoped the sight of the open countryside might have finally shaken his feeling of being out of place. But the landscape ahead of them didn’t look much like the memories he had left of rolling hills and the bright sunshine of his youth. Cullen tracked his gaze down that smooth stretch of road, hoping to catch a glimpse of the distant Frostbacks. They had a long journey ahead of them.

~~~~

The first symptom of lyrium withdrawal were fatigue and headaches. Unfortunately, fatigue was a natural state of being for a man with chronic insomnia. Headaches had often plagued him as a result. But he could feel himself fraying at the edges. Everything was a little fuzzier without lyrium.

“I can’t feel my fingers,” he said conversationally to Varric on the second day of their journey out of Highever. Four days since he had stopped taking lyrium. His mind might be full of haze, but that number was etched into his every waking moment. He hadn’t even had nightmares the past few nights. Just dreams of endless seas of glowing blue. If he closed his eyes for long enough, the winter mist seemed to be an extension of those images bleeding into his waking moments. The sticky porridge that had been prepared this morning has seemed to hold that beautiful shade when he caught sight of it out of the corners of his eyes.

His gaze drifted woozily to the landscape around them. He blinked slowly at the woodland to one side of the road, waiting for it to resolve itself into Kirkwall scrubland. The snow-capped peaks on the horizon looked entirely wrong too. The Vimmarks were far darker than that, and they were almost never covered in snow, even in the depths of winter. He loosed a hand from about the reins, clenching and unclenching his hands. The fingers moved when he commanded them, so he supposed they must be his, even if they were too numb to feel.

Varric tossed him an incredulous look. “I thought Fereldans were meant to be immune to cold.” He fished around in his saddlebag and came up with a spare pair of leather gloves. “You’re looking pale, and that’s saying something for a Fereldan templar. Take these.”

It was a sign of how disconnected Cullen’s mind felt that he didn’t raise a protest. He clumsily tugged on the gloves — too wide in some places and too short in others — and waited from some feeling to return. He absently clenched and unclenched his fists as he stared at the passing trees, waiting to see the landscape he expected.

A few hours later, once the sun had begun its rapid descent into the west, the haze faded slightly. He looked down to where gloved hands clutched at the reins. He shuddered. There went his faint hope that major withdrawal symptoms wouldn’t themselves known until Haven. He kneed his horse forwards to where Varric’s pony ambled.

“I apologise, Varric.” He made to begin removing the gloves. “These are yours.”

Varric waved away the offer. “Keep ‘em, Curly. Somehow I don’t think it would be a great idea for a templar to lose his fingers to frostbite.” He wiggled his own gloved fingers and shook his head. “I have my own pair to keep out this cold. I have no idea how you Fereldans can live here.”

Cullen smirked. “This is hardly cold. It will be far worse in the south, where I was born.” He took the gloves off anyway. “I have my own.”

“So why didn’t you put them on before we left? It’s freezing out here.” Varric shivered dramatically. “Fereldans.”

Cullen shuddered. He would rather not admit that his mind had been too fogged to remember he even _had_ gloves.

If Varric was struggling with the cold, no doubt templars and mages used to the shelter of a Circle would be feeling it far worse. He cast a look over his shoulder to check on the small column behind them, and had to clutch at the reins as a brief spell of dizziness threatened to send him tumbling off his horse.

Four days without lyrium. Less than halfway to Haven. _This can be endured._

~~~~

_Even in the height of summer, Kinloch Hold was not warm. The mages and templars who lived there were granted thick robes to see them through winters that left the tower unpleasantly frigid._

_That cold should have made a difference, but it didn_ _’t. The corpses tossed with casual indifference against the antechamber walls had decayed to fill the air with the stench of rot and putrefaction, coating Cullen’s tongue. Even that wasn’t enough to drown out the copper tang of blood magic twisting through the air, scraping Cullen’s raw nerves with its corruption. And those thick robes had soaked up blood and filth until it was impossible to tell quite what colour they had been in the first place._

_Cullen knelt in the filth, whispering what little of the Chant his fragmented mind could recall. When a particularly agonised shriek from above cut him off, he started from the beginning again. Then again. The same lines, over and over._

_He had tried often enough to dispel the magical barrier to know there was little point. Friends, people he had known, all killed in front of him whilst he was trapped in a cage of light. Farris_ _’ severed head gaped at him, propped on a spike where its wide and desperate eyes could stare down at Cullen. Beval’s corpse was a decayed lump of flesh and armour behind him. Uldred had passed him by time and again, dragging away others and leaving him alive. Uldred had left him to fall into madness. There was no one left but the dead and the abominations._

_And the demon. Always the demon._

_The magical prison didn_ _’t offer safety. The barrier that kept him trapped was nothing to it. The demon offered vision after vision, eroding the boundaries between reality and dreams, fraying his mind at the edges as he lost any grip on what was real. Hours, days, weeks, a lifetime? In the windowless antechamber, there was no way to know. He prayed for the strength to endure, then, finally, for the mercy of the blade that had saved Andraste from the flames. Only the demon answered._

 _The longest gaps in Desire_ _’s cruel attention were the worst. You could go mad with waiting. Perhaps he already had._

_~~~~_

Cullen gasped awake, eyes wide and staring as he took in the unfamiliar space around him. His heart thundered in his chest. In the dim shadows of the tent, he could see piles of corpses. He scrambled out of his bedroll and grabbed his sword.

Between one blink and the next, the corpses were gone. Cullen rubbed at his eyes, retreating out of his tent. The sudden brightness of the circle of firelight awoke incandescent agony in his skull. He staggered out into the darkness and retched with painful intensity until his stomach muscles were left weak and aching. A deep groan of pain leaked between his gritted teeth.

Eight days since he had stopped taking lyrium.

 _Maker give me strength,_ he prayed, thoughts scattering in the face of the crippling agony. _Let me get a little further._

He knelt there for what seemed like hours, hands cradling a lump of melting snow to his temples, waiting futilely for the crippling agony in his head to fade, or better yet, for the Maker to have mercy and simply kill him then and there. It was only the crunch of a patrolling templar’s footsteps in the snow that forced him to drag himself out of view into the shadows of his tent. He collapsed limply on his bedroll, limbs shuddering uncontrollably as he gulped in deep breaths of air.

At some point, he passed out. When he next awoke, predawn light was leaking through the tent flap. The pain in his head had settled to manageable instead of crippling. He was soaked in sweat, but his mouth felt scratchy and dry.

He cautiously eased himself out of his tent, eyes watering at the brightness. His breathing stopped. Hulking abominations in templar armour wandered about, casually taking down tents and preparing food at the campfire. The warped form of an abomination pulled itself out of a tent, seeker armour melding with tumorous lumps of flesh. He closed his eyes. _Not real. Not real._ Dreams were bleeding into his waking moments. It was a normal part of withdrawal. Completely, horrifically normal. That didn’t stop him from being absolutely certain he was about to be eviscerated.

“How are you feeling?” the abomination asked, its voice a clotted mess twining through the whispers of a demon.

“A headache,” he ground out through the pulsing pain in his head. “Nothing more.”

He clasped his hands behind his back to prevent them from leaping to his sword. His breathing was too fast, too shallow. _Not real. Maker, please, not real._

“Open your eyes,” it ordered him gently.

He did so warily, and exhaled a gentle breath of relief when a concerned and completely human face looked back at him. He could see her take in his faint tremors, sweat-soaked brow, and glassy eyes. Despite the chill in the air, his skin was flushed with heat. Yet his hands were numb and cold, trembling uncontrollably.

“Hallucinations?” she asked.

The demon’s whispers grew a little louder, echoing in his skull. He grimaced in response, throat bobbing as he swallowed his fear.  He blinked, for a moment completely unable to remember the woman’s name. He grasped for fragmented scraps of memory.

That was enough of an answer for her. “We will need to stop today,” she said quietly.

Cullen shook his head firmly. They would reach the Lake Calenhad docks settlement this evening. Of all the locations in Thedas, the only place he was less eager to visit was Kinloch Hold itself. “I can endure another few days.” Memory returned to him just in time to avoid stumbling over his words. “Lady Cassandra.”

“Perhaps you _think_ you can, but your body disagrees,” she replied sternly.

“Regardless,” he replied with a conviction he didn’t feel. “I will not stop here.”

He stalked off in the direction of the horses, praying his legs wouldn’t give way beneath him. They were half way through their journey to Haven and he could barely stand on his own two feet. _I have endured worse._

Their ride from the campsite to the Lake Calenhad docks passed in a blurry haze. But when they reached the crest of the gentle slope down towards the lake, all awareness came crashing back into him. In the bushes at the side of the road, out of sight and hearing, he retched up the little breakfast he had been able to face eating that morning. The elegant lines of Kinloch Hold, Fereldan Circle of Magi, pierced up like a needle from the glittering surface of Lake Calenhad. It was far too regal for such a bloodstained place. At least the Gallows had looked as brutal as its reputation implied. Kinloch Hold’s memories were far more insidious.

Cassandra gave him a piercing look when he climbed weakly back onto his horse, almost slipping off the other side. She knew as well as he did that the withdrawal symptoms were guaranteed to be severe by this point. No one could take — and occasional abuse — lyrium every day for ten years and not suffer after so long without.

They moved on down the road towards the Lake Calenhad docks settlement, a mere handful of homes and an inn on the shores of the lake. Without the tower, the settlement would collapse. Their survival depended entirely on the money earned by ferrying people to and from the tower and from what little trade could be expected from the templars. But Cullen could not force his eyes away from the slowly growing tower. Its pristine stone was a paler shade of white against the clouded sky and the snow-bound landscape. It was impossible to believe that the blood that stained its core couldn’t be seen from the outside. His heart fluttered uncontrollably quickly, matched by short gasping breaths. He slowed his horse until he trailed far behind the group. Despite the winter chill, sweat dripped from him.

“Maker, though the d-dark-,” he wiped his forehead with a trembling hand and started again. “Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the L-Light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure,” he whispered between breaths. “I shall endure. I shall endure.”

To go through withdrawal so close to that cursed place was more than he could bear thinking.  It took every ounce of hard-earned willpower not to turn around, push his horse into a gallop and keep going until the Circle Tower was nothing more than a speck on the horizon.

~~~~

 _The cold wind from the lake cut right through Cullen_ _’s thick robes as the boat crossed from the Lake Calenhad docks to Ferelden’s Circle Tower. Their route took them parallel to broken sections of bridge that poked irregularly from the calm waters and cast long shadows over the rippling surface. The tower itself was an elegant edifice that soared hundreds of feet into the air above the vast lake and would have dwarfed every building in Denerim. The afternoon spring sunshine was almost blinding on the pristine white stone, so that it seemed to be a beam of light against a cloudless blue sky. Huge flying buttresses supported a wide base, followed by a needle-like spire crowned with spines that seemed to scrape the sky above._

_The cluster of boisterous young initiates had nothing to say, for once. Even Beval was completely silent. This was what every single one of them had been dreaming of for years of training and dedication. Every sleep-inducing moment spent memorising and reciting the Chant. Every ache and bruise from hours of hard drilling in full plate, until their muscles could hardly bear their own weight let alone lift a sword. Mental focus exercises that had left them with pounding headaches and double vision. Lessons on magic they would never be able to perform but had to understand. All worth it._

_Most of their fellow recruits had been assigned elsewhere, to chantries or templar garrisons. Cullen_ _’s family had hoped he might be able to return to Honnleath and the tiny chantry there, but Cullen knew where his dreams lay. In this elegant tower. Serving in the Circle as a protector against the dangers of magic was what truly defined a templar. He couldn’t have prayed for a better outcome._

 _The ferryman hid a smile as he watched his young passengers stare open-mouthed up at the tower that loomed above them._ _“I’m sure you young templars know plenty more about this place than I do,” he said to the enraptured templars. “It’s the Circle Tower to most of us these days. The only Circle left in Ferelden. But it’s far older than that. The dwarves built it for the Avvar, and they held it right until the Vints drove ‘em out. It was empty for years, but it’s been a Circle since the Towers Age.” He smiled, revealing a mouth that had more gaps than teeth. “I’ve been here almost as long.”_

_The passengers finally stopped their wide-eyed staring when the boat passed through into the underground cave that provided the sole dock for the grand tower. The boat shuddered as it impacted the jetty._

_“Welcome to Kinloch Hold, young templars,” the ferryman said with a flourish._

_Cullen hefted his travel sack on his shoulder, feeling the brand new lyrium kit — the first possession that was truly_ his _since he had joined the Orde_ r _— dig into his ribs, and took a step off the boat. He couldn_ _’t keep the wide grin off his face. No one commented on his unabashed delight. They were all feeling the same. Welcome to Kinloch Hold._

~~~~

When he blinked again, he was standing in front of the door to the settlement’s sole inn. _Lost time. Forgetfulness. Maker, let me push a little further onwards,_ he prayed. _I can_ _’t stop here._

He pushed the door open into a room that was a little too warm and a little too busy. A mage’s Circle was never a popular destination, especially not now that its only inhabitants were the spiders. Templar Order delegations would have been hosted in the tower itself. The inn had never been intended to host so many. Their force were the only visitors to the inn, but they filled the room. The innkeeper seemed delighted, despite how busy his guests kept him.

After a week travelling together and forced intimacy, the boundaries between the groups had broken a little. For that, Varric had earned Cullen’s respect, if not his trust. The dwarf’s retellings of Hawke’s adventures each evening were tailored to highlight times when supposedly opposing sides had worked together. They all knew she had chosen to support the Order. The mages she had saved from the annulment as a result were still here, they didn’t need the reminder that they would have been killed without the Champion’s advocacy. Other stories took their attention. By all accounts, an apostate mage had been friends with a Chantry Brother and the ex-slave of a Tevinter magister with a distrust of mages to match Cullen at his worst after Kinloch Hold. If they could manage an alliance, so could these people. Cassandra’s troops weren’t quite as aloof as they had been. The templars were no less vigilant towards their charges — they would have faced stern reprimands from Cullen and Karellian if they had shown any relaxation in that respect — but they were at least able to sit at the same table and eat together. Even Karellian was at the same table, although he didn’t look especially happy about it. That was a trial Cullen was utterly convinced he wouldn’t be able to face right now.

 _They can_ _’t be trusted,_ whispered a voice he had thought long gone. _None of them can._ _Even a templar can become an abomination_. His vision wavered at the edges. His eyes darted about, trying and failing to watch every person in the room at the same time. The chatter of conversation became the whispers of demons pressing in on every side. Pushing and taunting until a mind that had become as fragile as a vial of lyrium shattered.

Varric waved him over with a cheery smile. “Curly! You must have some stories to tell about your time as a templar in Ferelden.”

Every templar in the room went deathly silent. Karellian looked over at Cullen for direction, his face smoothing from irritable to dangerously blank in a fraction of a second. One moment Cullen was at the entrance, the next he found himself looming over the seated dwarf with a few inches of perfectly honed steel showing above his scabbard.

“Varric,” Cullen said with deadly calm, so quietly that only the dwarf would hear. “If you bring up my past once more, I will feed you your own internal organs.”

Varric blinked, for once stunned beyond words. Cassandra appeared from behind and grabbed Cullen by the shoulders. She steered him forcibly up to one of the inn’s rooms, away from the overcrowded common room and the whispering demons.

“Emotional instability, Commander. A notable withdrawal symptom,” she reminded him quietly. “It will fade, but lyrium is an emotional damper. You will find yourself faced with emotions at a level you have not been required to deal with in ten years.”

“This one is quite familiar, I assure you,” he muttered. _Embrace the light. Weather the storm. Endure._

She eyed him cautiously. “I suggest we stop here to give you time to rest and work through the most severe phase of withdrawal.”

“That would not be wise here, Lady Cassandra,” Cullen replied tightly and massaged his forehead against the migraine pounding behind his temples. _Lyrium_. _I need lyrium_. “I believe you have read my service record. We will push on.”

She pushed open a door for him and ignored the comment. He sighed. Of course she knew. “Rest. I will bring up food.” She hesitated in the entrance. “Varric meant nothing by it. The Order keeps its secrets well.”

Cullen exhaled and nodded, trying in vain to ease the stiffness of his posture. Only the most senior members of the Order had access to the reports of what happened in Kinloch Hold. The rest of the Order had heard enough rumour to know he was there during the breaking. That rumour had filtered out of the Order incredibly slowly, softened at the edges until it seemed less of a catastrophe than it had been. His own sister didn’t know much more, and she had spent months tracking down every scrap of information she could to hunt him down after he left Ferelden. _The Order keeps its secrets_. With the memories presenting themselves to him one by one, as fresh as they day they had been made, it was hard to remember that it was ten years gone.

“Extend my deepest apologies,” he responded as she left. He stayed where he was. It was getting almost impossible to hide the symptoms, and there were still many days of travel ahead of them. Better to minimise contact.

Cullen eyed the room. It was far too small, but pitching a tent outside, in sight of the Circle Tower didn’t seem like a much better option. For once, it was good that this room had no windows. At least here it was peaceful, and the demons weren’t whispering.

He spent a little too long planning how best to drag himself to Karellian and beg a vial of lyrium off him. The only thing that stopped that plan was the pounding headache that kept scattering his thoughts out of reach.

“Maker’s breath,” he sighed tiredly. “Why did I have to be so stubborn as to forsake lyrium before arriving in Haven?”

He knew the answer, of course. Better to stop taking lyrium when the conviction had been strongest, rather than giving himself chance to regret the decision. It was the same reason why he had left his lyrium kit in Kirkwall. There was no option but to keep to his conviction, even when the thirst left him so parched he could have drained the entirety of Lake Calenhad and a parade of the dead danced in front of his eyes.

~~~~

Cullen woke screaming, with his blankets knotted about his knees. He choked it back in time to hear panicked movements all around him. He squeezed his eyes shut in prayer, then opened them wide again as a blood stained demon wearing a familiar face offered a temptress’ smile behind his eyelids. Too much to hope for peaceful rest, here of all places, with the worst stage of the withdrawal process racing up to meet him.

A templar stationed on watch in the corridor outside knocked gently on the door. “Kni-, Commander?”

That only reminded Cullen why a templar watch was necessary. Mages in rooms down the corridor. Maleficarum. Blood magic. Abominations. His heart fluttered unsteadily in his chest. He opened his mouth to speak at the same time as he caught sight of the plate of food Cassandra had left on the chest after he had passed out on the bed. His stomach clenched and he vomited a thin stream of bile into the chamberpot. He was barely managing to keep down what little he ate. His clothing — a perfect fit when he had purchased it a few weeks ago — was already loose. He had very little to lose without wasting away muscle.

He wiped his mouth with one hand and cradled his aching head with the other.

“Commander?” Karellian’s voice, a little more insistent than the hesitant Knight-Templar. “Do you need assistance?”

 _I need lyrium._ His mind begged him to say the words aloud. “I’m fine, Ser Karellian,” he called out, voice ragged.

There was a muted discussion outside and Cassandra pushed herself into the room. Cullen flinched back, pulling his blanket around himself with a protest forming on his lips.

“Fresh air. Now,” she ordered.

With a brief pause to pull on a shirt and breeches he followed her outside on wobbly legs. The sky was still pitch black and scattered with stars like drops of lyrium on velvet. It would be hours until dawn. The stern planes of Cassandra’s face were picked out in harsh contrasts by the light of the lantern at the inn’s door as their breath plumed in the freezing air. The sweat on Cullen’s skin seemed to turn to ice instantly, but the tatters of his nightmare fled with the shock of the cold air. _Thank the Maker for small mercies._

She handed him a canteen. “If I had known how severely you would react,” she began wearily. “I would have insisted you continue taking lyrium until we reach Haven.”

 _I am beginning to believe the same._ “Nightmares are not unknown to me, Lady Pentaghast,” he averted his gaze from Cassandra and looked away from the lake behind her, draining the canteen in one long pull. “We are fortunate they did not strike sooner.”

She clamped a hand over his wrist. His skin still burned, a sign that however much lyrium he lost, there would still be some left in him.

Her brow furrowed. “We will have to stop soon. There is no lyrium left in your blood. I am surprised you are still lucid.”

Lucid was a relative term. Fatigue, forgetfulness, and hallucinations were not a good combination. He had spent half today’s ride on the edge of delirium.

“I’ve endured worse,” he replied wearily. This time, he did look at the tower. It was a dark presence in the near distance that cast a long black shadow in the moonlight. Far more fitting. Somehow, seeing it that way was less horrific than seeing it as a pristine white edifice during daytime.

“You have done well at keeping your decision secret, but you worried your men tonight,” she scolded him. She was worried too, if her frown was a good indicator.

He chuckled dryly at that, finding a shadow of humour amongst the fatigue and pain. “I had a … reputation in the Gallows. I imagine I woke every resident of the officers’ corridors at least once before I moved to the Knight-Captain’s quarters. I’m more concerned about what the mages will think. Templars know this can be an issue. Mages do not.”

He was lucky that low lyrium reserves had prevented him from calling on templar abilities whilst he slept. That would have been a good way to damage the trust he had built with the mages.

This had been bad. He had to admit that. Withdrawal had already washed the details away in a haze of pain, but he was left with the remnants of the horror it had awoken. Over time, his nightmares had become muted things. Unless under particular stress, it had been easy to prevent himself from waking with loud outbursts. This had been as raw as his worst moments. _I suppose sleeping only a few miles from the Circle Tower_ does _count as a stressor._ Thankfully, he was so tired that falling asleep wasn’t an issue. Staying asleep was far harder.

“Both sides have difficulties that they are unwilling to admit to each other,” she replied. “I imagine that is part of the problem that led to this war.”

Cullen nodded his agreement before inspecting the empty canteen forlornly. It hadn’t done any good for the thirst. It wasn’t blue enough. “I think it might be wise for me to avoid my room for the remainder of the night.”

“You need rest,” she replied, her frown reforming. Her head whipped around. “Varric! How long were you there?”

Varric raised his hands. “I only just got here, Seeker. It was kind of hard to stay asleep with all the commotion.”

Cullen winced. “I apologise, Varric. For earlier this evening too.”

Varric shrugged. “I should be the one to apologise. Ser Karellian set me right. Sometimes the storyteller in me forgets common sense.” He turned on Cassandra. “I’m not especially tired. I’ll keep Curly company.”

Cassandra gave a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. I have never met a pair of more stubborn people.” She waved half-heartedly and strode off. “Good night. We leave at dawn.”

Varric strolled back into the inn with an exaggerated shiver and sat down at one of the benches. Cullen followed suit, slumping down with his pounding head in his hands. He offered a prayer of thanks that the common room’s blazing fire had been banked to a dull orange glow.

Varric traced a pattern in spilt ale on the table. “Hawke had bad dreams too, you know?” he said finally. “Not the kind of thing you put in a hero’s tale.”

Cullen thought back to his last conversation with her. “I suppose that’s not entirely unbelievable.”

“She wasn’t a trained warrior like a templar, but she had incredibly bad luck for finding people who wanted to kill her. She lost both her parents and her sister. Add all the weight of responsibility, first as Champion, then Viscountess…” Varric shrugged. “It gets to you.”

Cullen exhaled. “It does,” he agreed.

Varric offered a sincere smile. “I meant what I said in Highever. I’m happy to be a friend.”

“I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Besides, you spend too much time with a serious expression on your face. It’s bad for your health.”

Cullen chuckled at that, then winced as his head pounded harder. “Maker have mercy,” he gasped in reaction before gritting his teeth and continuing. “There is a wealth of evidence to suggest that I am _utterly_ lacking sense in matters of health.”

The healers in the Gallows’ infirmary certainly would have agreed with that statement. Cassandra’s voice would have enthusiastically joined theirs.

“Hey, we all have our weaknesses.”

~~~~

The next day, snow rolled in off the mountains, leaving the Circle Tower nothing more than a vague impression between the flurries of flakes. Cullen savoured the gentle touches of icy snow on his fevered skin, wishing that more than just his face was exposed.

This day’s ride would take them down from the northern tip of Lake Calenhad. By tomorrow, they would too far for the tower to be anything more than a distant blur. He eagerly awaited that moment. Its bright presence haunted him constantly, blurring the dreams and waking into one confusing mess. Every time he blinked, the white flurries of snow resolved themselves into the smooth granite of Kinloch Hold’s halls and corridors.

He had taken to riding further and further from the templars in their group. Unfortunately, after last night, Karellian seemed to be paying much more attention to Cullen. Until now, he had been able to keep a safe distance that had allowed the symptoms of lyrium withdrawal to be kept concealed. He hadn’t raised any suspicions, even from Karellian, a senior templar who had served in the Circle itself for years, with all the powers of observation that implied. Cullen’s reserved distance was hardly a new attitude, especially now that he wasn’t strictly their commanding officer. They had absolute trust in his leadership, for whatever reason that might be, but he had never been the friendly ear that his predecessor as Knight-Captain had been.

But Karellian was naturally suspicious, reinforced by years serving in the Gallows. With him riding so close, it was far harder to keep his increasingly severe symptoms hidden.

He had spent each morning for the past days thanking the Maker that templars never took their daily lyrium in public. Today, he would have preferred to be a country away from any templar. He clapped a hand over his mouth to block the hysterical laughter that threatened to break out. The rolling gait of his horse suddenly felt a little too much like that of a ship.

 _Emotional instability_ , a more lucid part of himself assessed coolly. Knowing it was to be expected didn’t make it any better than the previous time.

It took a few moments for him to spot Varric’s pony ambling alongside him. A despair demon had its long fingers on his shoulder as it whispered in his ear the way it had done to Farris before he had succumbed in Kinloch Hold.

“You’ve never been a picture of health,” the dwarf said, “but you look worse than ever today, Curly. I thought templars didn’t get ill.”

Karellian, riding only a few feet behind Cullen, let out an amused chuckle. “The Maker protects,” he muttered sarcastically. He urged his horse a little closer.

“Of course templars get ill,” Cullen said distantly, battling to hold on to both the contents of his stomach and avoid the hysterical laughter. “We just have access to a Circle full of healers, herbalists, and research-”

He let out a low groan as pain stabbed up from his gut to curl around his skull and stab hot knives in his eyes. His throat felt dryer than the deserts of Orlais. His vision faded around the edges, narrowing to tiny pinpricks. He curled around the pain in his stomach and clutched a hand to his head before it detached itself to float away from the torture. His hands were too numb to feel when he dropped the reins.

“Seeker!” Varric yelped. “Curly isn’t looking too good.”

With a small sigh, he toppled from his horse. As the world faded, he heard panicked shouts.

“Knight-Commander!”

“Hey, Curly! Cullen!”

His eyes drooped closed as the shouts and concerned voices morphed into distant screams of agony. His last conscious thought was to hope they weren’t his.


	4. Lost in Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen endures withdrawal.

  
?

August 9:30 Dragon ?  


_Greagoir looked tired and worn. He had ever since the breaking of the tower. His office had never been the most organised of places, a rather odd fact given that he had received the same training as every other templar. Somehow the obsessive neatness instilled in the rest of them had passed Greagoir by, or he had simply decided that_ _— as Knight-Commander — there was no one to reprimand him for untidiness. After the breaking of the tower, it had become worse, as if the tragedy had taken some scrap of inner resolve from him. The desk was littered with reports covered in Greagoir_ _’s messy hand. Cullen could spot a few of his own reports detailing recommendations for increases in the tower’s security. Perfectly logically explained and with every detail accounted for, any prudent Knight-Commander should have enacted them without a fuss after what had happened to the Circle. Greagoir hadn’t even bothered to read the most recent ones. They were tossed in a haphazard pile on the chair in front of Greagoir’s desk, forcing Cullen to stand, hands clasped behind his back in a perfect pose of attention. Perhaps it was intentional. An extra layer of distance from Greagoir’s primary source of shame._

 _Cullen_ _’s own appearance was a study in contrasts. His hair had grown a little too long in his indifference, haphazardly smoothed back to keep unruly curls from eyes that were ringed in dark circles and never stopped darting about the room. His face was gaunt, more than would be expected given the paucity of supplies during a Blight. But his robes were immaculate, hanging neatly, if loosely, about him. The sword and armour they had confiscated from him were just as well maintained. He had obsessively cleaned every trace of blood or rust left on them from his ordeal. His personal well-being might be immaterial, but he was a templar. The responsibility of his calling could not be betrayed by having anything less than exacting attention to his equipment and duty._

_“Thank you for coming, Cullen,” Greagoir began, as if Cullen hadn’t been escorted here from the holding cells by a pair of burly Knights-Templar. Even they had been disconcerted by the barely controlled terror of the cell’s occupant, his whispering words of the Chant overlapping as a ward against the temptations of a demon, the air thick with a humming field of lyrium to silence magic. Now though, he had forced the terror back behind his eyes, just out of sight as he had quickly learned to do, lest people think he was mad, irrevocably tainted by the demons. Sometimes —  often — he did not know what was real and what was another illusion. They could certainly not be allowed to see that. He was not mad._

_“Given recent…” Greagoir coughed lightly, “incidents, culminating with Enchanter Matthews—”_

_“Enchanter Matthews has a dangerous lack of control, Knight-Commander,” Cullen interjected smoothly, rationally. Outbursts were ignored as if he had never spoken, but Greagoir_ had _to recognise cold logic. Anyone sane had to see reason._ _“He must be made tranquil.”_

 _Greagoir frowned and continued as if there had been no interruption._ _“—I believe it is no longer wise to allow you to continue serving in the Circle Tower.”_

 _Cullen_ _’s mouth dropped open and his hands twitched to his back, hunting for the weapon they had taken from him. His focus on smooth and controlled breathing faltered. “What?” he blurted out, too shocked to say anything more._

_“I have arranged for your transfer to the monastery at Greenfell village.”_

_“You can’t do this!” Cullen shouted desperately, forgetting that it was important to keep everything hidden. He lurched forward a step, knees hitting the chair._

_Cullen spotted Greagoir wave a hand in the negative to the Knights-Templar he had ordered to wait just inside the office door._ Coward.

_“I am your Knight-Commander,” he reminded Cullen with some remnant of his old firmness. “I can do as I see fit with the men under my command. The Circle Tower is no longer a suitable posting for you. Arrangements have already been made. Knight-Corporal Marvell and Ser Anton will escort you to Greenfell tomorrow.”_

_“Nn-no. You - you can’t,” Cullen stammered._

_The fear twisted until it became towering anger. His bruised fists clenched tightly enough that his nails bit bloody crescents into his palm. He took another dangerous step forwards. Greagoir flinched back, made to stand from his chair._ Coward, _he thought again, eyes narrowed with disgust._ _He did not know what was necessary to keep the Circle safe._

 _“This is the chance the mages have been waiting for,” he hissed, stabbing a finger towards Greagoir. “They are all maleficarum and abominations, waiting for their chance to strike. I am the only one here who has the conviction to watch them. You certainly don’t. The tower will_ fall, _Knight-Commander. Again. We don_ _’t even need to wait for the Darkspawn to arrive. How can you still be so blind? Did the tower’s fall not show you how dangerous the mages are?”_

 _Greagoir didn_ _’t stop the Knights-Templar this time. One grabbed him and pulled him back from the desk. Still weakened by his ordeal, he was restrained as easily as an unruly child, as easily as a mage waiting for a moment of inattention to strike._

_Enchanter Matthews was dangerous. Just as they all were._

_“I had - have - high hopes for you, Cullen,” Greagoir continued as if Cullen’s rant had never happened. “Your promotion to Knight-Corporal was earned within a year of your initiation.” Cullen suppressed a desperate laugh at that. He would reject the title if he could. It was a concession to Greagoir’s guilt. “You could have made Knight-Lieutenant within five. But I am concerned that it has become dangerous to both you and our charges for you to remain here any longer. Greenfell is a place where templars can find peace. Once you have found that peace, you will be able to return.”_

_To most it would have seemed a neutral statement. But Cullen had learned the hard lesson of vigilance. Always watch. Templars could fall to demons as easily as mages. A shuffle here. A blink there. A twitch of his fingers. Greagoir was scared. And he was hiding something, just as he had avoided admitting how long he had cowered outside the tower whilst those trapped inside suffered and died. Greagoir never expected him to return._

_“Peace!?” he exclaimed, teetering on the edge of falling back into hysteria. He pulled against the restraining grip. The burning pain in his shoulder was the only way he knew this wasn’t another nightmare. This was real. There was nowhere to retreat but back into his own mind. “I can’t be at peace if you take me away from my duty. You will let this Circle fall again.” His voice broke. “I can’t abandon my duty. I can’t leave. It’s not safe. I can’t…” he trailed off into hoarse whispers and closed his burning eyes before the walls began to close in on him._ Trapped here. I can’t leave. Trapped. Have Mercy on me, Maker, please.

 _The demon would always be there. Waiting, watching, laughing._ _Pushing until he broke._ _He didn_ _’t pray for strength when he knelt for hours on end in the chantry chapel. He prayed for the merciful blade._

 _His knees buckled. The only thing that kept him standing was the Knight-Templar_ _’s grip on him. “Maker forgive me. This is my punishment for failing in my duty, isn’t it?” he sobbed._

_The anger, a shield thinner than paper, slipped out of his grasp, leaving only the fear. The Knight-Templar released his grip, allowing Cullen to sink to his knees. He buried his face in his hands, fingers sinking into tangled curls of hair._

_“This is an order, Ser Cullen,” Greagoir snapped, finding the rest of the spine he had lost after the breaking of the Circle. “You need peace, not the Circle. I have been patient, but I regret allowing you to return to active duty. Clearly it was a mistake.”_

_“A mistake.” His brittle laugh echoed far too shrilly from the walls. Greagoir flinched as Cullen looked up with hollow, red-rimmed eyes. “My whole life has been a series of mistakes.”_

_This was his punishment. He would never earn mercy._

_Perhaps Greagoir would have been happier if Cullen had died with every other templar trapped in the Tower. Cold horror trickled down Cullen_ _’s spine. Perhaps he had allied himself with the mages. Perhaps_ that _was why he was being sent away. He fought the templar who dragged him back to his quarters every step of the way._

 _Greagoir left a templar outside Cullen_ _’s quarters that night. He refused to return Cullen’s weapon and armour. For safety, he said. To prevent a sleeping templar from wandering the corridors with sword in hand, looking for the demon that haunted him._

 _He didn_ _’t care that night that the man stationed outside heard every terrified scream, the smash of a jug of water as he called a smite down in his sleep. He didn’t care when the man opened his door at dawn to find Cullen shivering in the corner, head buried between his knees as he wept uncontrollably._

 _Cullen reminded his fellow templars of their failures. Every other templar now left in the Circle Tower had been outside the sealed doors. They resented that reminder as he hated them for what they had failed to do. But worse, they feared Cullen as a living example of just how dangerous their duty could be. Death was the least of their concerns. Every time they were woken by his screams, every time they saw his desperate hunt for the demon that haunted him, every time they heard the zealous fire of a templar burned by what he had seen and experienced, they were reminded of the danger they had narrowly escaped. And they wished to forget. Dead bodies could be burnt, a prayer said over the pyre, the memory of their brutal deaths carried away on the wind with the ashes. They could not burn him, more_ _’s the pity. Cullen’s pleas for the merciful blade had been denied. But they could send him away. Little wonder that no one but Knight-Commander Greagoir was present for the perfunctory farewell. He had already been forgotten._

~~~~

Cullen came to his senses in what seemed to be a room in a Fereldan roadside inn. His head ached, and even the dim lantern light was too much. He raised a hand to a lump on the side of his head. That was a far cleaner pain than the agony inside his skull.

Cassandra’s scowling face glared at him. “You insisted you were well enough to travel, Commander. If my guess is correct, you have been in and out of delirium for the past two days without saying a word, despite your promise.”

“I’ve endured worse. I was handling it,” Cullen ground out through gritted teeth.

“So I see,” she replied dryly.

His hands clenched in the blanket. He blinked rapidly, trying to wash away the crystal clear memory. It was hard to accept that it had been ten years ago. It was as clear as if it were yesterday, whilst the journey here was lost in a haze of forgetfulness. At least there were no whispers at the moment.

“We should really move on,” he said, making to move out of the bed. “I would rather not delay us further.”

Cassandra’s scowl deepened and she pushed him back down. Weak as he was, it took almost no effort on her part.

“Absolutely not. We will stay until you are well enough to travel. The others have been sent on to Haven.”

“I’m fine. Really.”

As if in response to his words, another stab of pain shot up from his stomach. He grunted in pain. With nothing more than a raised eyebrow, Cassandra handed over a bucket. Cullen grabbed it gratefully and heaved up the contents of his stomach under Cassandra’s sympathetic gaze.

“Unfortunately, this will get worse before it gets better,” she said blandly and handed him a damp cloth. “You have adjusted to and become completely reliant on lyrium to keep you functional, but it has left your bloodstream. Your body and mind has begun to rebel in earnest. The next few days will be difficult.”

Cullen wiped his mouth with the cloth and set the bucket to one side. “And after?”

“Is this really the time for such a discussion?” she replied with a roll of her eyes. “You must get through the first phase before you worry about what comes after.”

Cullen levered himself to a sitting position and clutched the thick blanket to his shivering body. “If I am truly to be confined here, I need the d-distraction,” he replied through chattering teeth. Even hearing about what could kill him was better than reliving old memories.

She shrugged. “There will be a lull after the initial withdrawal where your need for lyrium will fade. But after so long, lyrium has penetrated your entire body. It is what grants you your resistance to magic. You will suffer relapses of varying severity as it leaches out. Honestly, I do not know how long the process takes, or if lyrium will ever leave you entirely.” She shifted in the chair, as if uncomfortable with admitting that there was something the Seekers of Truth didn’t know. “A recent initiate can break free with minimal difficulty, but you have used it long enough to become addicted.”

“I am not—” he began.

“Perhaps not in mind, but in body, certainly,” she clarified, before continuing. “Extended use makes permanent changes to a templar. There may always be a part of you that needs lyrium.”

Cullen coughed weakly and stared up at the rough wooden rafters of the ceiling, feeling inside himself for the light and song that had faded to a whisper. “Empty s-spaces.”

Spaces in his mind and heart that could only be filled by lyrium’s beautiful melody. It granted a sense of something greater, as if the melody they heard was only a tiny fraction of some unimaginably beautiful whole. When they drew on the abilities granted by lyrium, it was like reaching for that greater whole, making the world a bit more _real_. A place where magic could not exist. The Chantry might call it a connection to the Maker, but how could a templar describe the feeling of ingesting lyrium to someone who had never taken it? Sensing magic was like a blind man seeing colour for the first time. Using their abilities was like they had been given control of a limb that had always been there, waiting to be awoken. But those spaces grew larger the longer you took lyrium, so that you needed more and more to fill them.

Cassandra nodded sadly. “So I have been told. It is—” she cut herself off.

“It is part of what can drive those cut off from lyrium mad,” he finished for her. At her questioning look, he continued. “Templars were expelled from the Order at my or Meredith’s command. Others Meredith punished by depriving them of lyrium. I have seen what can happen in the worst cases.”

She nodded her understanding. Meredith was hardly the first in the Order or the Chantry to have used lyrium as a lash to keep templars in line.

He sighed and attempted to smile through the fear. He had become very good at hiding fear. In the early days after Kinloch Hold, it had been hidden by anger. Then, in the Gallows, it had been hidden by duty. “I almost l-lost my mind once. It is n-not something I plan on trying again.”

“I am glad to hear it,” she replied with another roll of her eyes. “You have the strength of will to see this through. Remember that. This will not be easy for you, but I have faith. You must have faith too.” She stood up from her chair and threw another blanket on his bed. “Rest. The conclave is not for another month and a half. There is no hurry.”

~~~

 _Cullen had begged that he be allowed to return to active duty. He knew that no one in the tower was truly aware of how dangerous the mages were. Even if the mages_ were _innocent, they could turn or be turned in a moment by a single corrupting influence. They had to be watched. Always. He could not rest. He could not be caught unawares again._

_And just as he watched them, they watched him out of the corner of their eyes, as mages always watched templars. Only he recognised their suspicious looks for what they were. They were waiting for a moment to strike. Demons lurked behind their eyes, held back by a layer thinner than the delicate glass of the lyrium vials that kept him sane._

_Greagoir had promoted him to Knight-Corporal for_ _‘heroic service above and beyond the call of duty’ soon after he was coherent enough to accept the promotion. Cullen almost threw it back in his face, but an upbringing in the Order meant that obeying a commanding officer was second nature. He could demand and he could protest. But he would not disobey._

 _The title hero was sickening. His fellow templars treated him more like something broken, whatever praises might have been heaped upon him. They could see the stain the demons had left behind. Just like how he could see that stain when he looked himself in the eye in the mirror. It didn_ _’t matter that he had never submitted. Desire’s corruption was on him. He knew the truth behind it anyway. The promotion was a pitiful apology for abandoning him to the demons and abominations._

 _Obedience was second nature. So when Greagoir rejected his first suggestion for an increase in security — a curfew, perfectly reasonable given the circumstances — out of hand, he had no choice but to grit his teeth and move on. If Greagoir refused to recognise the danger, Cullen would simply have to work harder to compensate. He woke earlier and retired later, praying the nightmares would leave him be. Fervent prayers in the desecrated remnants of the chantry, pleading for the strength to drive weakness from his mind. Hours of training in between his duties to restore his strength and hone his skills. The only reason he remembered to eat was because it was a scheduled part of a templar_ _’s day._

 _Greagoir had done his best to ensure the tower was up and running as soon as possible. The bloodstains had been cleared, the bodies had been burnt, even if their memory was emblazoned in Cullen_ _’s mind. His duties were the same as they would have been before the breaking of the tower._

_Arguments with brother templars almost as often as with mages. A supposedly overzealous enforcement of rules. Use of templar abilities to restrain mages unnecessarily. Greagoir overlooked the minor incidents. Then a major incident. There were so few templars left in the tower. Every one of them was needed._

_Two weeks after his return to duty found him overseeing an Enchanter as he worked on developing spells to assist in combating the encroaching Blight. Cullen’s mind shied away from any thought of just who had requested assistance._

_His eyes skimmed restlessly from workbench to casting circle to mage and back again, barely sparing a moment to blink. Every time the mage pulled on his magic, Cullen flinched, armour rattling. Enchanter Matthews acted as if he didn’t notice, but Cullen knew he was waiting for a moment of weakness, just as they all were._

_The Enchanter’s staff twirled, magic blazed. Flinch. A target caught alight in a blaze of flames with a purple hue. Every muscle in Cullen’s body tensed. He stopped breathing and reached for the lyrium song. The flames died out and Cullen breathed again._

_The Enchanter twirled his staff a little differently this time. There was a pop as every glass container in the room shattered. The crystal set in the Enchanter’s staff blazed a lurid purple as too much mana was channelled into the overloading spell. Honed reflexes had Cullen drawing on lyrium within a fraction of a second. The Enchanter yelped in pained shock, staggering as an impenetrable barrier sheared away his connection to the Fade. The bright flash of a smite followed, lighting the room a brilliant, pure white to wash away the corrupted magic._

_It wasn’t enough. Suddenly, the Enchanter’s balding head was Uldred’s. His grimace of pain was Uldred’s cruelly indifferent smile as he killed one templar after another and left their bodies to rot._

_Something snapped._

_Conscious thought returned to Cullen with the awareness of his cheek pressed against cold flagstones. A heavy weight pressed on his back, keeping him down. An immovable grip held his right arm, forcing it up behind him. His mind was both terrified and accepting. Of course. He was trapped in the tower as he would always be._

_His other arm stretched out on the floor beside him. He blinked rapidly, hot tears on his face, silent pleas for mercy spilling from his lips in an unbroken stream. The knuckles of his gauntlets were stained with fresh blood rather than old dried gore. Maybe it was his own. Demons didn’t bleed red. Maybe Uldred had finally decided to bleed him dry. He tried to force himself up, growling at the pain in his shoulder. As much as he prayed for an end to the horror, he could not - would not - submit._

_“Ser Cullen,” ground out a voice near his ear. A fragment of memory and reality returned. Knight-Lieutenant Jasper, his direct superior. Not the demon. “Stop resisting. The Knight-Commander is on his way.” The weight shifted a little. “Get the mage to the infirmary. Now!”_

_A mage, beaten to within an inch of his life for nothing more than a passing resemblance to Uldred. Cullen was thrown into the holding cells._

~~

The next time he returned to something approximating conciousness, it was to the sight of a concerned dwarven face leaning over him. The concern morphed into a cheerful smile. A damp cloth on his fevered brow was withdrawn.

Cullen spent a moment blinking in confusion, clutching for the elusive thread of reality. A moment ago he had been in the Circle Tower. Memory returned to him in fits and starts. Confused scraps of has beens and might bes.

“How are you feeling, Curly?”

Cullen jerked up from his bed. Or tried. Even that vague attempt at moving from a horizontal position sent his head swimming. He could swear the lantern was shooting fiery daggers through his eyes.

“How in the Maker’s name did you get in my quarters?”

The unfamiliar dwarf leaned back. “The Seeker asked me to keep an eye on you. She had to buy supplies.”

Cullen’s eyes widened. “A Seeker in the Gallows? Maker’s breath. Someone should have sent for me.” He tried again to push himself out of his bed. This time he succeeded in setting his feet on the floor. That tiny effort set his heart thundering in his chest. He stared about the room, panic rising. “These aren’t my quarters. Where is my armour?” He stumbled to his feet and collapsed almost instantly when his legs gave way beneath his weight. “No! This can’t be happening again.” His squeezed his eyes shut and his voice dropped to a whisper. “This _cannot_ be Kinloch Hold.”

The dwarf started out of his seat. The sound of the chair falling sent a stab of agonising fire through Cullen’s aching head. He let out a bark of pain.

“Might not be a good idea to get out of bed, Curly.”

Cullen’s eyes snapped open. Confused concern painted the unfamiliar dwarf’s face. “Who _are_ you, dwarf? And what have you done to me?” he hissed.

The dwarf’s eyes were wide. “Maybe I should go get the Seeker.” The door slammed in his wake. Cullen heard the distinct sound of a lock clicking.

“Maker have mercy,” he whispered. He finally spotted his sword and managed to grab onto the hilt, but the weight was too much for his arms to bear. It slid from its sheath and thunked onto the floor beside him.

He levered himself onto one knee and gripped the hilt again. Despair coiled cold fingers around his mind when he realised he couldn’t recall a single word of the Chant. His eyes drifted down to the sword at his feet and he breathed a sigh of relief. There were lines engraved on the blade. Small fragments of the Canticle of Benedictions. At least he remembered enough to recognise that. He murmured the verses over and over as he pushed himself to a standing position in painful increments.

He had no idea how to connect the disparate memories swimming about his mind. A mysterious dwarf had poisoned him. Or he was ill. Kinloch Hold was under threat and his Knight-Commander refused to recognise it. He was to be exiled to Greenfell. Only, he was in the Gallows. There was a Seeker here. His Knight-Commander recognised the magical threat perfectly well. Or perhaps this was a dream. Or an elaborate vision. He stifled a whimper as his mind jumped fluidly from one track to another, each as believable as the other.

He succeeded in pushing himself to his own two feet, sword supporting half his weight, in time to see the door burst open. A Seeker — or an illusion pretending to be one — strode in. The effort to settle into a ready position was too much for his weak muscles. Without the support of the sword, his legs buckled and he collapsed to one knee again.

He massaged his aching forehead. “I know what you are demon,” he spat, drawing on confidence and certainty he didn’t feel. “You’re desperate if you think I would fall for whatever ridiculous scenario this is.”

 She crouched down to look him in the eye. “I am no demon.”

He laughed without any humour and glared at her. “I’ll grant that this is a rather odd vision.”

“Demons are imaginative, but only within-”

“But only within certain parameters,” he interrupted smoothly. This was much the same as the lesson he had insisted on delivering to recruits personally in the Gallows. His memories might be a fractured mess, but this was advice he could never forget. “They can only use what they see inside your mind. They will create scenarios based on what they find there. People. Memories. Your darkest needs. If you allow yourself only duty, there is nothing the demons can exploit and they will find a more attractive target.” He stopped the familiar lecture and looked her up and down. “I don’t know you, Seeker,” he allowed with a curt nod. Reluctantly, he loosened his grip on the sword he was too weak to wield anyway. His heart rate slowed from terrified to simply panicked. “So perhaps not a demon after all.”

A faint smile crossed her face. “No. Although I have been called a demon before.” Her expression grew serious again. “Name, rank, and posting.”

A few ephemeral scraps of memory mustered themselves well enough for him to respond to those simple questions. “Cullen Rutherford. Knight-Temp- no, Knight-Captain. Assigned to …” the Seeker waited patiently for him to finish. He growled and kneaded his forehead, praying it might help set his thoughts straight. The throbbing pain made that a faint hope. “Second-in-command of the Kirkwall chapter under Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard,” he finished crisply, then groaned as nausea wormed its way through him.

He looked around for his lyrium kit. Perhaps he was on extended assignment outside the Gallows. That would explain the unfamiliar room. A few missed lyrium doses would explain his weakness and confusion.

 _Wait._ Icy horror crystallised his hazy thoughts. Everyone at Kinloch hold had thought he was mad. All his attempts at hiding it, at pretending he wasn’t a broken mess, had fallen flat. After the third violent incident, even Greagoir had lost his patience. _This is-_

The Seeker tapped Cullen’s bent knee, drawing his wavering attention back to her.

“What year is it, Knight-Captain?”

“Nine-” he stammered to a halt, heart hammering. “Nine Thirty-five? Nine Thirty? Maker preserve me. I have no idea.” He rested his aching head on his folded hands. Despite how icy they felt, they did nothing to soothe the feverish heat of his skin. He completed his aborted thought out loud. “This is - this is Greenfell, isn’t it? I’ve been retired. Merciful Maker. They were-” he stopped and laughed brittlely. “I thought I was a Knight- _Captain_?! Maker forgive me. They were right. I - I’ve lost my mind.”

It all made sense now. His mind had constructed a scenario where he served under a Knight-Commander who wasn’t as blind as Greagoir. Of course it wasn’t any more real than anything else his shattered mind could recall. The demon had shown him so many visions, mixing up truth and fiction until he was no longer sure what memory belonged where. This was just another fiction to join the rest. He began to whisper the few fragments of the Chant he could recall between shuddering breaths.

She shook her head firmly. “You are simply ill, Ser Cullen.” She put an arm around his shivering body and helped him back into the bed, ignoring his protests. “Remember what I said. Have faith. You have the strength of will to see this through. Rest and we will speak later.”

“Answer me, Seeker,” he begged as she left the room, his sword in her arms. “Am I mad?”

A fiery stream of agony tore from his head to pool in his gut and forced him to curl protectively around the pain with a groan. Another paralysed him entirely and fragmented his whispers of the chant as he was sent screaming into unconsciousness.

~

_“Ser Cullen! Wake up!”_

_The desperate voice and rough shaking of his shoulder pulled him from his tormented nightmares. His eyes flicked open and he fell tumbling to the floor. He felt rough stone underneath bare palms. No. This was wrong. He should have been wearing gauntlets. He should have felt the sticky slickness of old blood and rot. Another false vision._

_He snapped his head up and caught the flowing edges of a mage’s robes. Blind panic filled him, and he pulled at the lyrium in his blood. By some miracle, it worked, where it had failed countless times. He called a smite down on the mage and sent him spinning across the room with a muffled shout._

_Pounding footsteps entered the room, called by the tortured yells and tell-tale feel of a templar using his abilities._

_Metal gauntlets grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back to sit on the bed,_ _“What did you do to him, Enchanter?” snapped a half-familiar voice, “I could hear screaming from half a floor away. I almost believed there was a demon in here.”_

_“No, Maker, please. No. No.” The desperate pleas scraped at Cullen’s raw throat. “Leave me be. Please.”_

_A man in shining plate crouched before him, flanked by another pair of concerned templars._ _“Cullen. Cullen. It’s me. Jasper. There’s nothing here. What did Enchanter Galston do?”_

_“I did nothing,” responded a pain-filled voice. “He was having a nightmare. I was concerned that he would hurt himself, he was screaming so loudly.” There was a pause and rustle of robes. “It was not wise to give him lyrium.”_

_“You cannot ask him to suffer more than he already has,” Jasper snapped angrily. “He needed that lyrium.”_

_Cullen’s muttered pleas transitioned into frantic prayers and he squeezed his eyes shut. The demon’s visions were always so real, until he could hardly know what to believe any more. But the blood and corpses and the sound of screams from the antechamber. He always returned there. That had to be reality. Anything else was the demon’s doing. This could not be real. Could it? Why wasn’t the vision disappearing now that he had seen it for what it was?_

_The illusion calling itself Jasper grabbed Cullen by the shoulders._ _“Cullen. You’re safe here. Enchanter Galston is here to help you heal.”_

 _Cold metal biting into his skin. Bare fingers clutching at soft sheets. The details were too thorough for this to be a vision._ No. This _cannot_ be real. _False comforts had to be denied or the demon would have a hold over his mind._

_“I will not submit, demon,” he whispered despairingly. Why was it not leaving him?_

_The hands on his shoulders clenched._ _“Fetch the Knight-Commander if he’s still awake,” Jasper snapped to the templars beside him._

 _Sharp raps of salutes._ _“Yes, Knight-Lieutenant.”_

_They returned moments later. With most of the tower still out-of-bounds and so few inhabitants left, it was easy to find people._

_Knight-Commander Greagoir’s familiar face entered his field of vision. “Cullen. You did everything that a templar could be asked to and more. Now you must rest and recover.”_

_He stepped away and spoke quietly to the Enchanter and Knight-Lieutenant Jasper. Cullen caught the odd whisper as he murmured his way through the Chant._

_“There are no demons left here. The Grey Wardens were thorough. But as soon as I heard him mention…”_

_“…. weeks. Maker knows how he survived, or what he faced…”_

_“… will not talk. He must recover before we can ask…”_

_“He needs rest. His most grievous injuries are of the mind, not the body. Given his reaction, I dare not tend him any longer. You must find a mundane healer, assuming the Blight hasn’t killed them all.”_

_That last was a clear and fervent demand from the Enchanter._

_Jasper returned to his bedside and pushed a cup of water into his hands._ _“Drink, Cullen,” he ordered._

_Cullen was thirsty enough that he followed the instruction without thinking. The sudden horror that he might have just given the demon what it needed overrode the bitter taste of herbs in the water. He dropped the glass with a grunt of disgust. The shock of cold water on his skin cleared the tatters of his nightmare enough for him to recognise one thing. Perhaps this was real. More likely it wasn’t. When the falsehoods were as solid in his mind as the truths, identifying which one was real seemed rather meaningless. But two enduring truths remained. He could not submit. And mages could never be trusted._

_“Keep the mage away from me,” he bit out with exacting precision. “You might have them fooled, but I see you for what you are, abomination.”_

_The Enchanter flinched and braced himself at the ice in Cullen’s voice. He clutched protectively at an arm that hung limply at his side._

_Greagoir and Jasper exchanged unreadable glances._ _“You must rest, Cullen,” Greagoir said gently._

_“Rest?” Greagoir winced at Cullen’s shrill laughter. He managed to stop long enough to force out a few more words and wipe away a few tears. “I know how much power you have over dreams. I won’t be tricked that easily.”_

_Cullen attempted to push himself off the bed, but his limbs refused to respond beyond a weak trembling. His eyes widened in horror and he stared wide eyed at the Enchanter. There was only one thing that could make him lose control over his own body._

_“You’re a blood mage!” he accused the Enchanter with naked terror. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth. Tears pricked at his eyes as the power granted by lyrium danced just out of reach of his mind. So close, and yet beyond his reach. Again. Jasper darted forwards to catch Cullen before he fell off the bed. Cullen flinched away as best as his unresponsive muscles would allow him. “No!" he begged, a terrified whimper clawing at the back of his throat, heart hammering in his chest. "Don’t touch me, demon!”_

_The world faded away as he was dragged unwillingly into sleep and the demon that waited there._

~

Cullen spent more time delirious than lucid now. His world had reduced, once again, to a single room and an endless parade of nightmares. He would wake to feel cool fingers on his fevered wrist, or see Cassandra trying to hide her concern when she met his hazy glances. Often she would find him kneeling on the floor, wracked with shivers, lost in repeating the same lines of the Chant over and over. She would force him to eat food that he would vomit back up soon after, or to drink endless quantities of water laced with the bitter tastes of elfroot and spindleweed. Sometimes he would shout accusations at her, seeing the features of the demon replace hers. Other times he returned to the Gallows, seeing the crimes to which he had once been wilfully blind. Often, he could hardly remember his own name. When he was aware enough to know where he truly was, he barely had the strength to murmur a weak thanks in a raw and torn voice that reminded him he had been screaming.

Shadowy figures patrolled constantly at the edges of his vision. People he had known. People he had killed or failed to save. Far too many in that category. It was a parade of the dead stretching back years. He could vaguely recall pitifully pleading with them for lyrium at one point, throat parched with unimaginable thirst. His body screamed at him to be given what it needed to survive. Every nerve begged for the purifying fire of lyrium. Just a drop.

He had tumbled out of the bed. Every phantom figure held a tiny shard of pure blue. A vial of strength and clarity to calm the screaming chaos.

Desire had crawled out of the walls, wood parting around its lithe form as easily as the magical barrier that once trapped him had. A cruel smile played on perfect lips. The demon held a vial out to him. The captivating glow calling out to his soul. He had scrambled away until his back hit the opposite wall, pleading for the demon to leave him be, looking inside himself for a song that wasn’t there. It sauntered closer until he could no longer retreat, standing over him with a possessive smile on its face.

“You are mine, sweet templar,” it said soothingly. The beautiful melody of lyrium — never forgotten, never as good as feeling it in his blood — twined through her words. “I will always be here for you.”

The ghost of talons caressed his cheek. He closed his eyes, tears leaking from behind them. He couldn’t resolve what he saw and what he knew. Kinloch Hold was far in his past. But the demon was here. Whether it waited minutes or hours or ten years to return to him. It was always here.

“I have faced armies with You as my shield,” he whispered into the still air. “And though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except Your absence.” He exhaled out his fears. “I shall endure.”

He came to his senses a short time later, sprawled in a pool of his own vomit on the floor. Cassandra found him a little after that, half in and half out of a bed he hadn’t the strength to drag himself back into. She manhandled him back up like a child and handed him more water laced with healing herbs. All the while, he kept his lips shut to hold back a plea for lyrium. Desire was a demon that he knew how to fight better than any other. There would be nothing for it to use as a hold on him. He would not give in to weakness. He hadn’t been broken yet. The dead screaming their hate at him would not cause him to falter any more than his body’s pleas for lyrium.

Haltingly and with none of Varric’s smoothness, she told him stories of her time in the Seekers until he lapsed back into unconsciousness, sobbing quietly for mercy he knew he didn’t deserve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I really did spend an entire chapter on this…
> 
> Apparently, my (too many) WIP fics are at a 'be cruel to your protagonists' stage.


	5. A New Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen survives the initial withdrawal process and finishes the final leg of the journey to Haven.

The Imperial Highway, Ferelden

26 Haring 9:40 Dragon  


Cullen awoke with the memory of pain and need wracking his body. He ached everywhere — worse than after the hardest days as a recruit — and his mouth felt like it was filled with dust, but he felt … alive. More importantly and to his boundless relief, the boundary between dreams and waking was no longer a blurry, uncertain thing. It had been hard enough to free himself from that nauseating uncertainty the first time.

He tested each limb carefully. They all seemed to respond perfectly to his commands. He could actually feel his fingers. His crippling headache and nausea had become nothing more than a faint memory. The thirst was a mild itch at the back of his throat that was easily ignored.

He opened his eyes cautiously next. The small room was still lit by a flickering lantern, but the only thing he saw were four walls and a few simple furnishings. No demons lurking in the shadows and no dead faces forming in the knots and whorls of the wooden walls. The gentle light was warm rather than painfully bright.

And most hesitantly of all, he tested his mind, heart pounding with the fear that his reason had been burned away by fever and pain. He mouthed a few stanzas of the Canticle of Transfigurations before remembering precisely why it had almost sent him to sleep when he had first been required to recite it in its entirety. Every word came to him quickly and easily. The fog that had clouded his mind since Highever had cleared almost entirely. He was certainly tired, but it was the natural fatigue after recovering from an illness.

“Thank the Maker,” he gasped with relief.

But the song was gone. Not even a faint hum at the edges of hearing. It was like he had been dropped onto a vast barren plain, completely devoid of life. ‘Empty spaces’ was an understatement. He felt like his heart had been ripped out. The scars that lyrium had hidden were in plain view, raw and aching.

 _Freedom is worth the price,_ he reminded himself. _This can be endured,_ e _ven if it lasts forever._

He needed to be doing something. Anything that could fill the hole lyrium had left behind before he had to confront it head on. He had a debt to repay, redemption to find. It might not fill the gaping pit, but it was a start.

He reached up to scratch his face — offering another prayer of thanks when his hand barely trembled — and stopped when he met a fuzz of beard. He growled in irritation and tottered out of bed towards the chest at its foot.

He blinked in confusion then. He could recall quite distinctly that his sword had been resting on top. Now it was gone. He winced as hazy memories of threatening Varric and Cassandra with it drifted into place. Perhaps Cassandra had taken it to ensure Varric’s safety. It would hardly be much good if the Divine’s soon-to-be Commander murdered a key witness to events that had led to the war.

He rummaged through his saddlebags, hunting for his shaving kit. He sat back on his heels and scratched at his beard when he failed to find it amongst his limited possessions. Perhaps Cassandra had confiscated _any_ bladed item.

He pulled on his tunic and breeches, wincing again when he found they hung loose on his frame, and walked towards the door on shaky legs. He braced himself for a painful burst of light on opening the door. Instead, he was greeted with nothing more than the sight of whitewashed walls and wooden doors in both directions, illuminated by faint daylight spilling in through a window at the end of the corridor. He wandered in what he hoped was the right direction and found himself at the top of stairs leading down into an oddly empty common room.

Varric was seated at a table near the stairs, scribbling furiously in a notebook. His head jerked up in response to the movement.

“Curly!” he exclaimed. “Should you be up?”

“I imagine Lady Cassandra would say I should not,” Cullen replied, voice painfully dry and hoarse. He scrubbed at his face, scruff of beard catching on his palms. “How long have we wasted waiting for my recovery?”

Varric closed his notebook and toyed with his quill. “I wouldn’t say wasted,” he said with exaggerated neutrality. “Even the Seeker was starting to look seriously worried. A little longer and I would have convinced her to find a healer for you.”

“Maker,” Cullen exhaled. “What day is it?”

“Twenty-sixth of Haring.”

“Almost a _week_? Maker forgive me.” Cullen made his uncertain way down the rest of the stairs and dropped onto the bench before he fell over. “I have kept us far too long. We should leave.”

“Probably not a good idea, Curly,” Varric replied firmly. “You’re looking better, but that’s not saying much.” He shivered. “Shit, I thought the Seeker was going to have to give you your last rites.”

Cullen cocked his head. “Lady Cassandra said nothing?”

“Nothing other than, ‘It is under control, Varric’,” he quoted in a passable imitation of her Nevarran accent.

“Lyrium withdrawal,” Cullen informed him evenly, the memory of pain sending a stronger shiver through his trembling limbs. “I chose to forsake lyrium when I left Kirkwall.”

Varric started back, eyes wide. In Kirkwall, he, Varric, and Hawke had had a discussion on how the red lyrium plaguing the Gallows might be managed. Its difference and similarities to normal lyrium. Varric knew more than most what lyrium granted and what it took from a templar.

“That’s suicide for a templar, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps, but I have survived so far.” He leaned forwards and met Varric’s startled look with a steely one of his own. “You will not breathe a word of this to _anyone_ , Varric. This is a private decision, but given that you were on the receiving end of my more … unstable moments, I owe you the truth.”

Varric held up his hands. “My lips are sealed, Curly. I can’t believe you talked the Seeker into letting you do it.”

“It was a condition of my accepting this position, along with my resignation from the Order. She was less than delighted that I chose to forsake lyrium before Haven.” He barked out a pained laugh. “In hindsight, I can see why.”

Varric breathed out a shaky laugh. “You don’t say. ” His worry morphed into a wide grin at the audible rumble from Cullen’s stomach. “That’s a good sign, at least. You look half starved.” He called for food to be brought out.

“We should move on,” Cullen replied insistently.

That thought stopped when a bowl of food settled in front of him. His stomach enthusiastically reminded him that he had barely eaten for a week. Cassandra had mentioned that a persistent loss of appetite might be a problem. Clearly that wasn’t to be an issue yet. Before he was quite aware of it, the entire bowl was empty. Miraculously, his stomach seemed quite content to keep it down.

The inn door swung open, framing Cassandra in the fading evening light. She looked startled when she saw Cullen sitting at the table, mopping a crust of bread around his bowl.

“Commander. You are well?” she asked cautiously.

Weak limbs. Lingering thirst. And a gaping hole exposing all the scars on his heart. “As well as can be expected, Lady Cassandra.”

She flicked a significant glance at Varric and back again. “We should speak.”

“I informed Varric about my ‘illness’,” Cullen replied. “I owed him an explanation.”

A handful of expressions flickered across her face, as if she wasn’t sure whether she should be pleased or irritated. Finally, she settled on stern. She rattled off a barrage of questions designed to test whether a templar had lost their reason. Simple questions like name and rank all the way to complex ones that drew on knowledge it had taken months of studying to absorb. She seemed almost as pleased as he did when he answered each question without hesitation.

“You have a long road ahead of you, Commander,” she said finally with a genuine smile. “But I am glad to see that you have reached this far. My confidence was not misplaced.”

Cullen shrugged, a rare smile flickering across his face. “It can be endured.”

She gave an exasperated groan at the oft-repeated comment. “This stubbornness will serve you well.”

Varric grinned. “Glad I’m not the only one that earns that reaction.” If anything, his grin widened when Cassandra glared at him.

“I assume you confiscated any of my possessions that held an edge?” Cullen raised a hand to indicate his face. His stomach was satisfyingly full, but he still felt unpleasantly dirty. “I need to restore myself to some kind of order.”

She frowned. “I grew concerned that you would do harm.” Cullen didn’t fail to note that she avoided clarifying whether she meant to himself or others. He had vague recollections of begging for the merciful blade. But he had never faltered and asked her for lyrium. He wondered briefly if she would have given it to him if he had begged for it. “I will have them sent up to your room. Along with a bath.”

He tottered back upstairs with a brief thanks, then almost fell asleep on his bed waiting for the bath. When it finally arrived, steam curling in the air, he sank into it with a sigh of gratitude. The heated water eased the lingering aches in his limbs and washed away dried sweat, leaving him feeling slightly closer to a functional human being again. He closed his eyes and leaned back.

He woke with a jolt and a quiet gasp, splashing lukewarm water from the tub onto the floor. He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly. He might be shaking off the chains lyrium had placed on him, but the past would never leave him. Evidence would suggest that the nightmares would be with him for the rest of his life, only now, he had no lyrium to blunt the edges.

With a sigh, he eased himself out of the tub and walked over to the tarnished mirror set on a table. He winced. The face staring back at him looked thin and drained of life. Deep shadows ringed eyes that seemed to have dulled from amber to brown. He avoided looking in those pained eyes for too long, afraid of what he might see. His overlong hair — already darkened from its natural shade by half a lifetime in a windowless Circle — was equally dull. A scruff of dark beard covered his face and the premature lines at the corners of his eyes and on his brow had been etched a little sharper. He looked like a lyrium addict begging on the street. No wonder Varric and Cassandra had both been concerned to see him.

“Easily remedied,” he muttered, and grabbed his shaving kit.

He flinched minutely as he lifted it. Like every one of a templar’s possessions, this was an item issued by the Templar Order. At a brief glance, a standard issue shaving kit bore more than a passing resemblance to his lyrium kit, with its carven image of Andraste on the lid. When he opened it, he half expected to see the familiar tools nestled in the padded interior. Part of him was disappointed when he didn’t.

_This will not be easy._

He growled in frustration and grabbed the razor. When he was done, he smoothed damp curls of hair away from his face and inspected the reflection again. The man who looked back at him now still looked like a different person. Not young and innocent Knight-Templar Cullen or haunted Knight-Captain Cullen. Not jaded and weary Knight-Commander Cullen. Not a starved lyrium addict either, although his eyes were still deeply shadowed and his cheeks were hollow. He held no illusions that his past could or indeed should be shed so easily. But perhaps this new person looking back at him had a better chance at learning lessons from that past to find redemption.

A smirk twisted the scar on the reflection’s lip. With his hair smoothed back by water, the unruly curls had almost been tamed. Perhaps he could leave Varric’s nickname behind with his past.

~~~~

Through sheer force of will, Cullen succeeded in convincing Cassandra that they would continue their journey onwards to Haven after a single day for recovery. He took advantage of the spare day to purchase replacement clothing more suitable for the mountains of Ferelden that didn’t make the weight he had lost quite as obvious. He was once again forced to admit that travelling so soon after enduring painful withdrawal might not have been the wisest decision, when his legs threatened to give way more than once.

He had agonised over his final purchase long enough that the shopkeeper had wandered over to ask whether he required assistance. The small town in which they had stopped was close enough to Gherlen’s pass that it was a trading post for goods out of Orlais. It was the shopkeeper’s endless chatter detailing the benefits of the item that finally convinced him to purchase it, simply to prevent his headache from returning. Water’s influence on unruly curls could only last so long. If the shopkeeper’s enthusiasm was any judge, this would work far better. The confidence certainly seemed justified when he saw the reflection that looked back at him from the tarnished mirror once he was done.

He had purchased more for himself in the past weeks than he had in his entire life. He still felt mildly guilty at purchasing anything that wasn’t an essential item. He might have broken the vow binding him to the Order, but vows to the Maker were not something he could ever forsake on a whim. He intended to keep the others, and a vow of poverty did not combine well with frivolous purchases.

Varric offered a wide grin at the change in appearance. “Looks good, Curly. But you can’t escape the nickname that easily.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “I could only pray it were possible.”

Varric laughed outright at seeing the mantle that Cullen pulled about his shoulders as he sat at the inn’s table to eat. “Red and furry? You’ve somehow managed to pick both the most Fereldan and most Templar item you could find.”

Cullen tugged the garment straight. “It’s warm,” he replied defensively. The weight of the thick fur about his shoulders wasn’t quite as reassuring as his old pauldrons, but it was certainly better than the light coat he had worn from Kirkwall. Fur was not a Kirkwall style, and it made him feel a little more at home in his country of birth. The new lined gloves were warmer than anything that could be purchased in Kirkwall too, even if he was convinced it would take the blazing fires of the sun itself to warm his hands entirely.

“I’m sure it is,” Varric chuckled. “Doesn’t a man like you live in armour anyway?”

“I would have preferred armour, but I left my templar attire in Kirkwall. I… ah.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. He had filled out enough requisitions to know the cost of templar-quality armour, but the expense had still been a surprise when he considered purchasing a replacement. “Armour is completely outside my means.”

“Welcome to life outside the Chantry, Curly.”

“Quite,” Cullen responded dryly. “Lady Cassandra agreed that a Knight-Commander’s armour was not appropriate. Given the Divine’s desire for reconciliation, a more neutral appearance is advisable. Suitable replacement armour will be provided in Haven for me and anyone else who chooses to join.”

“Generous. I couldn’t even convince her to give me coin to pay for my journey back to Kirkwall once I’m done here,” Varric replied with a long-suffering sigh.

Cullen stiffened at the rapid clatter of hooves on the packed earth of the street outside. Civilian travellers never rode that fast unless there was trouble. He stalked to the inn’s entrance, hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. Varric grabbed his crossbow from under the table and followed close behind.

A trio of templars cantered down the street, faces concealed behind full helms. The few clusters of civilians on the street disappeared within seconds, unwilling to risk finding out which faction these templars called their own. To one side, he heard the click as Varric loaded and ratcheted his crossbow. Cullen frowned and gestured for him to hold. The templars were armoured in Kirkwall plate.

The moment when the riders spotted him was obvious when the leader’s head snapped around to look at him. The horses wheeled about and drew to an abrupt halt in front of Cullen, kicking up clumps of dirty snow.

The lead rider stripped off his helmet, surprise painted across his face. “Commander?”

Cullen’s eyes widened and he dropped his hand from the hilt of his sword. “Ser Karellian. You should be in Haven by now.”

Karellian slipped off his horse smoothly. He was perfectly turned out in polished armour that gleamed despite the overcast sky. Only the damp snowmelt on the hem of his robes suggested a hard ride. Cullen was irrationally glad he was already wearing the new clothing and had had a day to return himself to order. It made him look less like he had been close to crossing the Veil permanently. The thick fur of the mantle had the added advantage of concealing lost muscle he would have to work to regain.

 Karellian saluted, echoed by the pair of Knights-Templar. “We were, Commander. I turned around almost as soon as the mages were safely delivered to Haven.”

He made no attempt to hide the searching look he gave Cullen. New clothing, a shave, and neatened hair could only do so much. A bath and a solid night’s rest with only a mild nightmare had done wonders for his appearance, but there was no concealing the new gauntness in his face.

Karellian spared a brief look for Varric. The height difference between Karellian and the dwarf suddenly seemed dramatic.

“I need to speak with Commander Cullen. Find somewhere else to be, dwarf,” he ordered curtly.

Varric looked between Cullen and Karellian. “I know better than to get in the way of templar business.” He strolled down the street, past cautious civilians that were only just beginning to re-emerge. “I’ll be back in half an hour,” he said to the air in general.

Karellian followed Cullen into the inn. The Knights-Templar with him settled themselves just outside the inn’s door, hands resting on the pommels of their swords to deter any potential intruders. Karellian settled himself at a bench opposite Cullen, scowling when he set his helm down in sticky spilt ale on the table.

Cullen didn’t bother to hide his displeasure. “What are you doing here, Knight-Captain?” he snapped. “You should be ensuring the mages are adequately settled in Haven, not enjoying the sights of Ferelden.”

“Knight-Corporal Orrick is in command until my return.” Karellian cast a furtive glance around the room, looking for listeners. “We — meaning what is left of our command structure — are concerned at your treatment, Commander,” he said in an undertone. “You’re looking much better than when we last saw you, but you couldn’t have looked much worse, frankly. I didn’t want to press the issue with Seeker Pentaghast when I had mages and tranquil under my guardianship, but if you wish to return to Kirkwall, you need only say the word and we will follow.”

Cullen blinked, his mind failing to properly process what Karellian was saying. “You will need to clarify, Ser Karellian.”

Karellian pursed his lips, as if Cullen’s comment had proven something. He lifted a hand to take in Cullen’s rather worn appearance. “Seekers are not known for their forgiving nature. Perhaps the Divine truly is looking for a Commander, but that clearly hasn’t stopped the Seeker from exacting some kind of retribution for perceived crimes. Or perhaps interrogation. I don’t imagine you would submit to questioning easily.”

“You think Seeker Pentaghast has been torturing me,” he stated flatly.

“You were clearly unwell, Commander. Andraste’s flaming sword, you _collapsed_ , and we have all seen how you kept working without faltering after the chantry explosion. It is well known that Seekers can set the lyrium in a templar’s blood aflame. Torture with no visible injuries.”

“It had nothing to do with the Seeker,” Cullen replied wearily. Distrust was precisely what had led to the collapse in the first place. They had a long road ahead of them. “We are allies, not enemies.”

“With all due respect, Commander, I’ll believe that when I see it. The only time a seeker ever speaks to a templar is when they want something. They wanted you to command this force. They got you.”

Cullen sighed. He wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or concerned that the signs had been misinterpreted. “The force being built in Haven means to change that. I told the truth when I said I had joined of my own free will. I have not been coerced any more than you have been.”

Karellian looked dubious, although he wisely held his tongue. Questioning the state of mind of his Knight-Commander — former or otherwise — was clearly further than he was willing to go.

“Are you looking for an excuse to return to Kirkwall, Knight-Captain Karellian?” Cullen snapped. “As I said when I first asked you, I will not compel you to accompany me. I am no longer your Knight-Commander. Strictly, the Kirkwall templars are yours until you officially join the Divine’s forces.”

“No, thank you, Commander,” Karellian replied with distaste. “I’m glad to leave the Gallows behind. We will follow you as far as you need us. But _if_ you need us, whenever that may be, say the word. I imagine the mages will help too, if need be.”

“Enough, Knight-Captain. I can understand your concern, but this is not a discussion I intend to have in a roadside inn. Suffice to say I was ill and I recovered. You may pass that information to anyone who was concerned.”

Karellian’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. He gave a seated salute. “Commander.”

“Your loyalty is appreciated, Karellian,” Cullen offered.

And it was loyalty. Granted, the chain of command was too well engrained for anyone to raise a word of protest after Cullen had succeeded Meredith as Knight-Commander. Whatever they might have thought, the promotion had been granted by the Knight-Vigilant himself. But those who disagreed with the sweeping changes that Cullen had made to the Gallows were long gone. He had certainly never been a cheerful or particularly empathetic man. A life serving in the Gallows had ground him down, as it had so many others. But he believed in his duty as a templar.

“I want a return to normality, although I’m not sure I know what that is,” Karellian said delicately, as if each word was a struggle. “I don’t want to see the Chantry neglect us again and waste the opportunity, Commander.”

“I do not intend to let it be wasted, Karellian. Neither does Seeker Pentaghast.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“I recognise that you were concerned, but in future, I will expect you to keep to your post, Ser Karellian. Leaving the Gallows has not changed your responsibilities,” Cullen said sternly.

“I’ll gladly take my old rank back if you can find a new Knight-Captain,” Karellian replied irritably.

“You seem to have managed with the promotion. You could have received the Knight-Captaincy in Kirkwall if I hadn’t.”

“Andraste’s flaming sword,” he growled. “The Circle was enough trouble. I didn’t need the entirety of the Gallows on my plate. I think every Knight-Lieutenant but Alrik was glad it wasn’t them, especially right before the end.”

Cullen sighed. The promotion had seemed such an honour at the time. “I imagine so.” He shook his head. “Return to Haven. I will be no more than two days behind you.”

“The offer stands, Commander,” Karellian said as he stood from the bench and tucked his helm under his arm.

“There is no need,” he replied firmly.

Karellian hesitated on his way to the inn’s door. His eyes narrowed as he turned back. “Haven was reasonably well stocked. Our lyrium supplies are no longer as tight as they were during the journey, Commander.”

Cullen shook his head in response to the veiled offer. He had kept his mildly trembling hands under the table for the entire conversation, but ex-Circle Knights-Lieutenant were observant people by necessity. “I will speak to you in Haven, Ser Karellian.”

He followed Karellian out of the inn and exchanged a few short words with the Knights-Templar before bidding them a farewell. They pulled themselves onto their horses and departed at a more reasonable speed than they had arrived.

Cullen folded his arms and leaned against the wall beside the inn’s door, waiting for Cassandra. Varric arrived almost precisely at the half an hour mark.

“They’ve left already? No problems, I hope?”

“Not now, Varric.”

Varric shrugged and ambled back into the inn.

Cassandra returned soon after. Despite the frosty chill to the air, she was covered in a thin sheen of sweat that suggested she had returned from drilling. Cullen was eager to do the same himself. He had avoided drilling with anyone since his symptoms had begun to worsen, and now he itched to resume. At the very least, he needed to go through the hard work of restoring lost strength again.

“Lady Cassandra,” Cullen growled as she approached.

“Commander,” she replied in flat disapproval of his anger.

“Apparently, you failed to inform me that my subordinates were sent ahead to Haven under the impression that my ‘illness’ was because you were _torturing_ me.”

“I informed them that there was business to attend to and you would rejoin when you could.”

“Maker’s breath. You surely must be aware of how templars perceive seekers. You didn’t let them speak to me. What else were they to think? You are fortunate they had mage charges to look after.”

“Do not be unreasonable. You asked for privacy in your decision. I could hardly let them speak to you when you were so obviously experiencing lyrium withdrawal.”

He growled in frustration and pinched the bridge of his nose. She wasn’t wrong. “They are my men. If you intend for me to command these forces, you will not keep such information from me in the future.”

“So be it, Commander,” she agreed reluctantly. She gave him a searching look, taking in his appearance more critically than Karellian had. “I see no reason why we should not resume our journey tomorrow. But you will inform me if your symptoms worsen again. There are no more towns between here and Haven.”

“Good,” he replied curtly. “We have delayed quite long enough.”

The sooner they moved on, the sooner he could find some distraction for the incessant itching at the back of his mind.

~~~~

The left at dawn the following day, another three days of travel ahead of them. As smooth as the Imperial Highway was, Karellian would have had to have pushed hard to get to Haven and back so soon.

Cullen passed a restless night encamped in the shelter of the trees off the side of the road that evening. Past mistakes. Past faces. Oceans of blood. Without lyrium, there was nothing to keep memory suppressed. He was glad for the distraction of striking camp and moving on towards Haven when dawn broke the following morning.

Occasional glimpses of the calm waters of Lake Calenhad appeared as they followed the road. And on the other side, the snow-capped peaks of the Frostback Mountains loomed closer. Occasionally, the peaks were lost in the clouds, other times, they were framed against the pale winter sky.

Cassandra signalled a halt as a man on horseback emerged from a small track leading deeper into the woods crowding the side of the road. Flashes of metal plate were visible from beneath the dull cloak about the man’s shoulder. He purposefully let the garment fall back as he drew closer, to reveal Fereldan templar light plate. The familiar sight raised an ache in Cullen’s chest for a moment.

The templar held his horse’s reins in a light grip with one hand. The other rested on the bow with arrow nocked on his lap. A sword hilt protruded over his shoulder in easy reaching distance, balanced by a quiver of arrows on the other. This was a man who expected to find trouble on the road.

“Allow me, Lady Cassandra,” Cullen said quietly.

She nodded her acceptance and tugged her own coat closed to conceal the Seeker heraldry on her armour. “Be careful. We do not know his allegiance.”

Varric reached up a hand to check his crossbow. “For once, I agree with the Seeker. Be careful.”

Cullen urged his horse forwards at a trot to meet the approaching templar. He loosened his sword in its sheath. Be careful was a wise suggestion. He had served in Kirkwall far longer than Kinloch Hold, and this man would have still been a recruit when Cullen left Ferelden. The likelihood of recognising or being recognised by the approaching templar was slim. Maker knew what he intended by revealing himself when he could have easily remained concealed in the trees.

He scanned the man and his horse quickly, taking in what details he could before offering a salute, gloved fist tapping lightly over his heart. “Maker’s greetings, Knight-Corporal.”

“Maker’s greetings,” the templar replied guardedly. His rapid return assessment of Cullen froze at the sword in plain view. The uninformed could not be expected to spot the indicators, but a templar certainly would. Cullen might not wear the armour, but any templar would recognise a templar weapon, even with the scabbard wrapped and blade hidden. The eyes that drifted up lazily to meet Cullen’s were cold and dangerous. A gloved hand tightened around the bow. “All things are known to the Maker.”

Cullen responding smile was glacial. His hand remained where it was, resting loosely on the hilt of his sword. After Kinloch Hold and the Gallows, cold and dangerous was as comfortable as his own skin. The templar had quoted a fragment of the Canticle of Transfigurations, the first canticle of the Chant that a young recruit was expected to memorise. A verse condemning deceivers.

“And He shall judge their lies,” Cullen completed the verse with the rhythmic cadence of someone who had led countless services. The templar couldn’t fail to note how he suddenly found himself blocked from further advancement up the road by Cullen’s horse. Thankfully there was no need for Cullen to face the other templar on his own two feet. His muscles were still weak after the prolonged withdrawal period and he missed his armour more than ever.

“Brother Knight,” the templar acknowledged reluctantly.

“Knight-Commander,” Cullen corrected icily. There was no advantage to be gained by admitting he had resigned his commission. Now was a time to wield all the authority earned in the blood and chaos of Kirkwall.

The templar’s eyes flicked again to the sword, taking more time to recognise and interpret the finer details. Not many civilians would risk impersonating a templar. A person would be mad to risk impersonating a Knight-Commander and it was a death wish for a templar to do so. But these were strange times.

“You’re a long way from the Free Marches. Knight-Commander. And I could have sworn you sound-” he cut himself off and his eyes narrowed, “sound Fereldan.” The templar’s horse shifted in response to some movement. “Kirkwall?”

“Kirkwall,” he confirmed. Unlike the templar’s uneasy horse, Cullen kept his own perfectly still, blocking the road ahead. “But there appears to be far more need here.”

If a person would be mad to risk impersonating a Knight-Commander, that applied doubly so for such a well known one.

“My Knight-Lieutenant often communicated with his counterpart in Kirkwall, a Knight-Lieutenant Lark of the scouts.”

Cullen almost laughed at the probing comment. “Then I imagine your Knight-Lieutenant has been lying to you all these years. Knight-Lieutenant Forthrin led the scouts in Kirkwall.”

The templar snorted in amusement. His expression remained wary, but he seemed to be satisfied that Cullen was who he appeared to be. “I suppose you must be right, Knight-Commander.”

“You are far from the Circle Tower. What brings a lone Knight-Corporal this far west?”

“Assignment, Knight-Commander,” the templar replied easily. “We received word of a blood mage conducting raids on caravans heading for Gherlen’s pass.”

Cullen gave a significant look behind the templar, emphasising the lack of reinforcements. “A lone templar against a blood mage is tantamount to a suicide mission. I suppose procedures must be different in Ferelden,” he replied sardonically.

The templar gritted his teeth in something approximating a smile. His fingers twitched over his bow and settled again. “I was to discover the blood mage’s location only, Knight-Commander. My Knight-Lieutenant awaits my report.”

“I won’t keep you then,” Cullen said as he heeled his horse over to the side of the road.

“Thank you, Knight-Commander. You are wise to remain anonymous, but I would advise caution. Apostates have gathered in Ferelden. Templars out of Kirkwall may not be welcome.”

“I imagine I have more than enough experience with handling apostates. And deserters.”

Another not-smile. “Might I say that it’s good to see that a templar with your experience has chosen to come to Ferelden, Knight-Commander? The mages here seem to have forgotten Andraste’s tenets.”

Cullen kept his distaste off his face. He had lost the assistance of lyrium to keep his emotions muted — a situation to which he would have to adapt — but he had more than enough experience at maintaining professional impassivity.

“Maker guide you to the right path, Knight-Corporal.”

The templar’s eyes narrowed. The farewell could be taken many ways. With a salute, he kneed his horse into a canter that sped him past Varric and Cassandra. He spared them a brief glance as he passed, hand resting on his bow the whole way.

Cullen released his grip on his sword hilt slowly. He was grateful the templar hadn’t forced him to draw on lyrium to prove his identity. He found himself prodding the empty spaces as one would assess a missing tooth. Would it even work to draw on his templar abilities? He was too scared to try. The thought of having to confront that gaping emptiness so intensely so soon was nauseating.

“How far to Haven?” Cullen questioned Cassandra as she and Varric rejoined him.

“Two days ride up the mountain paths at most. Why?”

Cullen watched the plume of dust that marked the retreating templar. “He is almost certainly a scout for a larger force. Rebels," he said with a disgusted curl of his lip. "They will need to be found and removed from the area before delegates begin gathering for the conclave.”

“You are sure, Commander?”

“I am. He claimed to be a mage hunter on assignment in Gherlen’s pass, but he certainly didn’t come from Kinloch Hold. The only templar forces in that direction were at the Redcliffe arling garrison.”

Cassandra frowned. “Which dissolved soon after the Lord Seeker declared the Nevarran Accord null and void.”

Cullen nodded a confirmation. “He had no supplies, only his weapons. His commanding officer is either exceedingly incompetent to send out an unprepared mage hunter with no sense of direction, or he was set to watch for suitable targets.”

“Are _we_ a suitable target?” Varric asked with concern.

Cullen shook his head. “He would have no choice but to assume you were all affiliated with me, and templars out of Kirkwall hold some standing with the rebels. The Order might be fractured, but not so much that we have taken to attacking our brother and sister templars. Yet,” he finished darkly.

The following verse from the Canticle the templar had quoted condemned stealing from brothers and sisters. If the renegades were reduced to that, they would no longer be able to proclaim the righteousness of their cause. It would take true desperation for them to shatter the illusion of following the Maker’s will, but the need for lyrium would force them to act, eventually.

“I will inform Leliana when we arrive in Haven,” Cassandra said. “This would be a good location to allow them to raid lyrium caravans or intercept those intending to attend the Divine’s Conclave.”

“Indeed.” Cullen wheeled his horse around to continue their journey up the path. “We should move.”

The scout had shown signs of mild lyrium deprivation. It had been impossible to miss how the templar’s eyes had drifted towards Cullen’s saddlebags as soon as he had realised Cullen was a templar, as if looking for the lyrium that would in normal circumstances have been stored within. Cullen knew precisely how much pain was in store once their lyrium ran out entirely. It was one thing facing withdrawal in the shelter of an inn with the assistance of a Seeker. Quite another to face it in some makeshift camp in the woods when all your fellows were experiencing the same. The point at which rebels decided it was worth risking the Maker’s anger might be sooner rather than later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it would only take me two chapters to cover the journey from Kirkwall. That was clearly a huge underestimation of how long I like to spend on filling in gaps.


	6. Introductions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen arrives in Haven and meets his new colleagues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's taken a while for me to post this one. See it as more of an interlude. My current plan is looking like there'll be another three or four chapters before we even get to the conclave...

Lower Slopes, Frostback Mountains

29 Haring 9:40 Dragon  


Without a full column of templars and seekers to attend to guard duty, Cullen was glad of the excuse to claim the first watch period when they laid camp that night. After all, he had served in a Circle for ten years, albeit most of those in a command position. Cassandra’s rather pointed look when he offered to take the first watch said she didn’t especially believe the excuse. If he was on watch, he could delay another night of sleep. Cullen grudgingly acknowledged to himself that she was almost certainly right. But it was comforting to allow himself to fall back into the familiar state of constant vigilance that service in a Circle cultivated.

Whether it was Ferelden or the Free Marches, no journey through more remote regions could ever be considered entirely safe. n the Kirkwall environs, whole stretches of coast were notorious for the number of bandits that could be found there. Kirkwallers joked that it proved that there was no reason to visit any of the other city states. Travelling off the Imperial Highway network was a risk that most avoided taking alone.

The rest of their journey to Haven was seen through that lens. Knowing that this route would need to be secured before the conclave, Cullen found himself assessing the requirements for ensuring the safety of the delegates. His prediction that the suspected templar renegades would leave them be proved to be true, but that wouldn’t be the case for mage travellers, particularly those who made no attempt to conceal their status. The very public nature of the conclave meant that it was an ideal location for those less willing to accept a peaceful resolution to sabotage the proceedings. Would a mage really believe that the templar that attacked them was acting outside their duty? Under more militaristic interpretations — ones he might well have voiced himself during his early years in Kirkwall — it _wasn_ _’t_ outside their duty. Likewise, would a renegade group of templars really choose to believe that the apostate who attacked them didn’t represent every mage in Thedas? If the Divine truly wanted this conclave to be a success, it was their job to ensure that those potential conflicts were stopped before they ever happened.

Varric — having long since discovered that Cassandra was not receptive to his stories — happily chattered by Cullen’s side as they travelled. He didn’t seem especially bothered by the fact that Cullen’s attention was mostly focused on the snow-covered outcroppings and scrubby stands of trees that clung to the slopes. Cullen was grateful to note that the necessary level of focus to maintain that level of vigilance through any distraction hadn’t all been a gift granted by lyrium. Combined with the crisp, clean air and the bright sunshine, he felt happier and healthier than he had in weeks. Perhaps in months. Or years. It felt _good_ to be free. It was almost easy to ignore the hollows that lyrium had left behind. Discomfort was an acceptable price.

On the final day of travel, they wound their way up through precipitous passes that showed the signs of recent expansion. Once, Haven had been a village that had been happy in its isolation. Now it was the gateway to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, quite possibly one of the most sacred sites of the Andrastian faith to be discovered in recent memory. It certainly made for a promising location to look for peace.

By noon, with bright sunshine sparkling on a pristine blanket of mountain snow, the once remote village of Haven came into view. Cullen heeled his horse to the side of the road and surveyed the secluded valley. Haven was an exaggerated caricature of an isolated Fereldan village. Rough log homes sheltered inside a rough palisade that was likely intended to keep wolves at bay during especially cold winters. It wouldn’t be especially defensible against a concerted attack, but that would hardly have been a concern for an isolated region like this. It looked precisely like the kind of village that wouldn't have seen a single visitor from the outside world in years. Little wonder they had managed to keep secret the location of such a significant relic for so long. Cullen wondered how they were coping with the recent influx of arrivals. In Honnleath, visitors had been greeted with enthusiasm. The more remote settlements had a far less welcoming reputation.

Varric too had fallen silent as he looked down on Haven. “Maker’s balls,” he groaned finally. “It’s so cold that a _lake_ is frozen?” He shook his head and called out to Cassandra. “Send me back to Kirkwall before I freeze to death, Seeker.”

“You may leave once the Divine has spoken to you,” Cassandra replied irritably. She reined her horse to a halt beside Cullen’s and pointed out the distant shapes of tents clustered outside the palisade. “Conclave delegates will be settled in the valley containing the temple itself, but those who chose to join the Divine’s force are gathering here.”

From this distance, it was difficult to make out any detail in the distant figures wandering about between the tents. Judging by the number of tents and people he could see, it was a small force.

“Perhaps a quarter of the numbers Kirkwall held before the annulment,” he commented to Cassandra. Granted, Kirkwall had likely been one of the largest chapters of the Order outside of Orlais, but it still felt too small. Maker willing, a larger force would never be required.

She nodded an agreement. “You will find a mix of templars, seeker auxiliaries, and mages. The Divine has even welcomed civilian volunteers.”

Cullen cast a dubious look at Cassandra. “Is it wise to allow civilian volunteers to risk themselves? It would be a bloodbath if the worst should happen amongst the mages. And an untrained farmer would hardly be a deterrent to a templar recruit, let alone a fully ordained knight.”

Varric chuckled. “I’m sure I’ve heard plenty of stories about trained soldiers being killed by farmers with pitchforks. Deadliest weapons in Thedas.”

“It has been known to happen,” Cullen acknowledged with a wince. His own training officers had warned them against underestimating how dangerous untrained but angry civilians could be even to veteran templars.

“With the Order and the Seekers of Truth having broken from the Chantry, it has been difficult to recruit solely from those already sworn to the Maker’s service,” Cassandra replied grimly. “Appropriate training will have to be provided to the volunteers. The Divine cannot turn down offers of assistance.”

“I suppose you’re right. We take what we can get,” Cullen sighed.

Weapons training for civilians. They didn’t have the minimum of five years given to templar recruits. An accelerated program would have to be developed. Another task to add to the list.

“Maker willing, you will be able to set an example as to how we can all work together,” Cassandra commented. “It is a skill we should never have allowed to lapse.”

Varric cast a wide grin at Cullen. “No pressure, Curly.”

“None at all,” he replied dryly.

Train civilians. Forge a cohesive peacekeeping force out of four disparate groups. Secure the region for conclave delegates. Ensure that no conflict broke out between the two sides before and during the conclave. And if no peaceful resolution could be found, enforce peace the hard way in a reborn Inquisition. It was certainly an interesting challenge. Maker grant him the strength to do the task justice. Maker grant his decision to follow his own desires in forsaking lyrium would not sabotage those efforts. Desire was a weakness. But freeing himself to choose and do his duty without compulsion could not be dangerous. _Maker willing_ , he prayed silently, eyes raised up to the pale blue sky.

He smiled at Cassandra and inclined his head towards the path snaking down into the valley. “Shall we?”

~~~~

By the time Cullen, Cassandra, and Varric had finished their descent, word had already reached the residents of their arrival. Cassandra disappeared in the direction of Haven’s gates, a resigned Varric in tow, with a brief parting suggestion to introduce himself to his command. Cullen was glad for the excuse to get right back to work. The last thing he wanted now that he had finally arrived was to sit idle.

Karellian strode up from a small cluster of tents as Cullen dismounted from his horse. His salute was perfectly crisp. If he still held the concerns he had voiced in the roadside inn days ago, he kept them well concealed.

“Welcome to Haven, Commander.”

“Ser Karellian,” Cullen acknowledged him with a return salute. “You intend to stay then?”

“I do, Commander,” he scowled in the direction of Haven’s gates, where Cassandra had disappeared. “Provided nothing has changed since our prior conversation.”

“It has not,” he replied curtly. “If you have any further doubts, come to me rather than waiting to air them.”

“As ordered, Commander,” Karellian replied with another salute. He gave Cullen a pained grimace. “I’ll admit that I misinterpreted the situation. And frankly, if you did what I think you’ve done, I don’t want to know.”

 Cullen sympathised. “We won’t discuss it further then.” He looked past Karellian. With their services not yet required, most of those who were to be under his command were at ease. Now that he had arrived, that would have to change. “Muster for an inspection. I need to know what we have here.”

Considering that most of the force didn’t have the benefit of years of training, it took less time than he might have expected. But it took every years’ worth of practice in professional impassivity to avoid wincing. He didn’t need different uniforms to identify each group’s origins. The templars and seeker auxiliaries were arrayed in perfectly still ranks, as if they were trying to outdo each other. The others had lined themselves up in a few ragged lines. They managed a vague approximation of attention, if attention included the occasional shuffle and movement. If they had been templars under his command, they would have spent the next week assigned to drills with the recruits until they straightened out. As it was, he supposed it was the best they could do. At least they had made the effort.

Another officers stepped forwards to present themselves beside Karellian for Cullen’s attention. The man’s salute was perhaps a little less precise than Cullen was used to. The casual arrogance of seeker auxiliaries had always irritated highly disciplined templars, but Cullen allowed the relaxed attitude to pass. Until procedures were formalised, he could hardly complain.

“Captain Fabian, Commander,” he introduced himself in the easy drawl of the eastern Free Marcher city states. “In command of the Seeker Auxiliaries that are here now that Seeker Pentaghast is back in her primary role as the Divine’s Right Hand.”

“A pleasure, Captain,” Cullen replied. “I trust you won’t be leaving us to rejoin the Lord Seeker?” The last thing he needed was for a quarter of his force to disappear without warning.

The man’s answering smile was rueful. “I should say, in command of the _former_ Seeker Auxiliaries. We are the Divine’s now.”

“Glad to hear it. Your experience will certainly be useful.” He scanned the neat ranks of templars lined up on what passed for a parade ground. Most were Fereldan or Orlesian. Hardly surprising given Haven’s location and the fact that the Chantry’s centre of power was located in Orlais. But there were scattered handfuls from further afield. “And the others here?”

“As far as I can tell, Commander, the majority of the templars were sent by Knights-Commander with sympathies for the Divine’s goals,” Karellian said.

“Can they be trusted?”

Karellian’s shrug spoke volumes. “Their enthusiasm seems genuine enough, but only time will tell.”

“If either of you spot any suspicious behaviour, let me know.”

Cullen exhaled and studied the ragged group of mages last. In multiple variations on a theme of a Circle mage’s robes, they certainly didn’t look anything like a military force. Karellian’s gaze followed Cullen’s and his frown deepened.

“We aren’t quite sure what to do with the mage volunteers, Commander,” he said flatly. “They’ve been settled.” The unspoken addition being that they had been settled securely, where a watch could be kept over them. “But we left the ultimate decision to you.”

Cullen kneaded his temple against a sudden headache. Here was the decision he was dreading most. A large part of him — the part that had served in the Gallows for ten years — said that mages should be fielded only when absolutely unavoidable. But he was forced to acknowledge that he couldn’t reject the mages simply because they made him uncomfortable. Even ignoring that lingering anxiety, they had all volunteered and he wasn’t a Circle commanding officer charged with keeping them safe. He had to make the effort for the sake of the Divine’s peace.

“I don’t suppose they have a hierarchy? Or any idea how a military force operates?” he asked, knowing that the answer would be in the negative. Circles had never operated under the disciplined military structure that the Order enforced for its members. “A Knight-Enchanter would be convenient,” he added.

Fabian let out a brief chuckle. “That would be too much to hope for, Commander. None of them are above Enchanter.”

Cullen sighed. That was hardly a surprise. A Knight-Enchanter might have the necessary experience, but it was rare to find mages who chose that path. Meredith hadn’t permitted any mages in the Gallows to pursue the avenue of study.

“We’ll work something out. Ser Karellian. I highly doubt the mages are carrying their Circle records around with them, so collate a list of specialisations and skill levels. You know the relevant information. If there are complaints, inform them that it is a necessary part of volunteering to serve.”

“Yes, Commander,” Karellian acknowledged brusquely. An easy task for a veteran Circle templar.

With the introductions made, Cullen turned his focus to the arrayed volunteers. There had been far too many rank and file templars in the Gallows for him to know more than a name for most of them. But he couldn’t be a distant presence here. First impressions mattered.

He clasped his hands behind his back and raised his voice to carry to every one of the people in front of him. “I am Commander Cullen Rutherford, appointed by the Divine’s writ to command this force. You may have heard of me as a former commanding officer of the Gallows in Kirkwall.” He said the words without allowing any hint of shame to emerge. There were lessons to be learned from that history. “Whatever legacy that might suggest, I can assure you that our goal is now and will always be to see that there is a peaceful resolution to the ongoing war. Wherever we might have come from, we are now a united group. Brothers and sisters.” He studied each block and watched them shift uncomfortably. “The Divine is trusting us all to set an example of cooperation. In a little over a month, I hope to be able to say that every one of us assisted in achieving lasting peace.”

Cullen lowered his voice and pinned Karellian and Fabian with a look. He nodded towards the distinct groups in front of him. Experienced officers like them would recognise the obvious separation and its significance as easily as he did. A short speech wasn’t going to change a cautious distance built over hundreds of years.

“I intend to make this a unified force. That means we will all be working _together_. Mixed squads. No petty rivalries. We will share our skills. Understood?”

Crisp salutes and “Yes, Commander”s said they had heard him. Time would tell whether he could make it true.

“Knight-Captain Rylen of Starkhaven will join us in the next few weeks as second-in-command. He will be accompanied by others, but I will assume that this is now the extent of the Divine’s forces.” Off to one side, he saw Cassandra approaching from Haven’s gates, a pair of women in tow. “We will have a formal planning meeting tomorrow at dawn,” he informed them. He raised his voice to carry to the entire gathered force. “Dismissed.”

With the ranks dissolving, he allowed himself a moment to close his eyes and rest gloved fingertips to soothe his tired eyes. It was easy to forget that he had a long and difficult road ahead of him. Thank the Maker he was familiar with working through fatigue.

He straightened himself and strode off to meet Cassandra and those others selected to be the Divine’s advisers, shaking his head with mild incredulity as he walked. Maker willing they were slightly less controversial choices than Knight-Commander Meredith’s former right hand.

Cassandra had briefed him on what to expect of one of the advisers. Sister Nightingale, Left Hand of the Divine. It didn’t take many guesses to predict her intended role. Cullen’s own role was a military one, but a Divine’s Left Hand worked in the shadows, where military strength might not be the appropriate tool.

Cullen’s gaze flicked over to the final person in the group before abruptly snapping back to Sister Nightingale. Her face was partly concealed by a raised hood, but as she came closer, detail emerged. Cullen’s heart lurched. He had expected and dreaded that he might encounter a templar or a mage he had known from the Circle Tower. But this?

At the time, he had been utterly convinced that his rescuers from the horrors of Kinloch Hold were yet another illusion. A cruel trick played by the demon, offering the forgotten hope of a rescue. It had seemed to be such an obvious trick. The details hadn’t mattered. The only face he had registered was the one the demon had worn most often as it tried to break his mind. Even once he had accepted that _perhaps_ they might not be illusions after all _,_ he hadn’t the presence of mind to pay attention to his rescuers’ identities. Even now, he didn’t especially want to acknowledge that part of his past. Far better for it to stay in his dreams where it belonged. But the approaching woman triggered a sudden rush of memory that nearly floored him. She had been there. She had seen him at his weakest. He wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or nauseated.

He blinked away the recollections in time to school his expression into a neutral welcome. _Perhaps she doesn_ _’t remember me,_ he thought in vain hope. There was little chance of that being true. He supposed it was rather hard to forget a half-mad templar ranting at you with blood and death all around.

Cassandra came to a halt in front of him and gestured to the familiar woman. “Allow me to introduce you to Sister Nightingale, Left Hand of the Divine. She serves as spymaster.”

The unwelcome image from his past rolled her eyes at Cassandra. “I would not have put it in those terms, but yes.”

He marshalled his thoughts and stammered out something he hoped was a polite greeting. Cassandra gave him a sidelong glance in reaction to his wavering introduction. He shook his head minutely. She hadn’t bothered to conceal how closely she had been watching him in case of a relapse on the final leg of their journey. But this sudden flash of weakness had absolutely nothing to do with a lack of lyrium.

“Please, call me Leliana, Commander.”

 _Thank the Maker,_ he thought fervently. She hadn’t acknowledged a thing. Perhaps she was as reluctant to resurrect that horror as he was.

He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment as he attempted to salvage the conversation. “Maker willing, our services won’t be necessary beyond the conclave. But if they are, I imagine your skills will prove vital.”

Her lips curled in a brief smile. “Let us pray we will not need to find out.” Cullen gratefully turned away from Leliana as she indicated the woman beside her. “Josephine has also only recently arrived in Haven. She has kindly agreed to step down from her position as Antiva’s ambassador to Orlais in order to assist the Divine as a diplomatic adviser.”

Cullen studied the woman. Unsurprisingly, the Divine had mainly drawn from the pool of those sworn to the Maker to create this force. But eye-wateringly bright clothing in an Antivan style certainly didn’t suggest any connection to the Chantry. Perhaps it had been necessary. After all, the Chantry had allowed the Circles, Seekers, and Templar Order to fracture.

“Josephine Montilyet.” She dipped a brief curtsey and extended a hand to shake. “A pleasure to meet you, Commander Cullen. I have heard much about you,” she said with a polite smile.

Cullen took the proffered hand warily. “Forgive me if that statement makes me cautious. I imagine my reputation will give you rather more work than you might have expected.”

“It is all a matter of telling the right tale,” she replied with incongruously bright enthusiasm. It sounded like she actually appreciated the challenge. “Commander Cullen, defender of Kirkwall, who left the Templar Order to right wrongs and stop a war. Who could protest against you?”

He winced. At least she hadn’t called him a hero. “If you can have people believe that, you will earn my enduring respect.”

“If anyone can do it, Josie can,” Leliana commented.

“You have introduced yourself to you subordinates, I assume?” Cassandra asked him. She gestured towards the village gates. “There is very little to see in Haven, but I will show you the facilities we have here.”

Cullen dipped his head in polite farewell to Leliana and Josephine. There would be plenty of time over the next month or so to get used to working with them. Maker willing, he’d be able to look at Leliana without wincing every time.

Cassandra gave him a thorough tour of Haven. The chantry was surprisingly large given the village’s size. Certainly bigger than the tiny chapel in Honnleath. Aside from that, there really was very little to see. The arrival of the Divine’s forces must have tripled the region’s population.

Their final stop was the makeshift armoury that had been set up outside Haven. The cluttered confines were nothing like the organised and spacious armoury in the Gallows, but they didn’t have meticulous Tranquil here.

The man in charge came bustling up with a wide smile and shook Cullen’s hand enthusiastically. “Welcome, Commander Rutherford. I’m Robbins. Only a leatherworker, I’m afraid, but I’m looking after the equipment until we can get a proper blacksmith in. We’re delighted to have you, don’t let anyone tell you differently.”

Cullen looked on in bemusement as the man continued to pump his hand and babble on with his cheerful welcome. He couldn’t recall the last time someone had actually been happy to meet him. Polite, certainly. But genuinely happy?

He patted the man’s hand uncertainly and attempted to gently extricate himself from the tight grip. “I appreciate the welcome.”

Cassandra’s voice was laced with amusement as she addressed the man. “I assume the Commander’s equipment has arrived?”

The man finally dropped Cullen’s hand to take a step back and survey his clothing with a practised eye. “Indeed it has, Seeker.” He bustled over to a table and whipped a sheet away with a flourish. “This arrived from Val Royeaux a week ago.”

Cullen stepped up to the table with barely contained eagerness. He missed armour. Going without hadn’t felt comfortable since before Greenfell.

The deceptively simple suit of armour arrayed on the table before him had the subtle gleam of hard-wearing silverite. It was certainly different to what he was used to from the Order. He hefted the breastplate. Light enough for someone well used to wearing plate armour every hour of the day, but clearly well made without being ostentatious. Whoever had forged the set had known that costly silverite spoke for itself without embellishment. He ran a hand over the embossed scrollwork around the gorget and smirked. It certainly wasn’t the Sword of Mercy emblazoned on templar armour, but he rather liked it. It would need to be adjusted to account for his lost mass, but apart from that, it was better than he had ever expected to receive. The helm, on the other hand, was a painfully ornate lion’s head that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an Orlesian general.

“Maker’s breath,” he muttered under his breath. “I can tell it came from Val Royeaux.” Mindful of the fact that he had been given an incredibly valuable set of full silverite armour, he turned to Cassandra and gave a short bow. “My thanks, Lady Cassandra. This is far better than I was ever expecting. Simple steel would have been more than enough.”

“A military commander needs something a little sturdier than travel leathers,” she replied. “And I insisted that you be provided with something worthy of the position.”

“Please extend my thanks to the Divine,” he said with a shake of his head. “This is far too generous.”

“You will have the opportunity to thank her yourself soon enough.” She eyed his sword. “Given your training, I would assume you will want a shield to accompany the sword.”

Cullen’s hand loosened from where it had automatically settled on the pommel. He hadn’t wanted to take his shield when it so obviously tied him to the Order, but he hadn’t even realised how much he missed it until that reminder.

“A shield would be preferable.”

She gestured him over towards a rack of spares and indicated a large steel shield emblazoned with the Seeker’s eye. Cullen’s eyebrows rose. On closer observation, it wasn’t the Seeker’s symbol, but the combined blade and eye of the old Inquisition.

“A little early for that, isn’t it?” he asked with a wry smile.

She chuckled. “At least it displays our intent. I will be taking one myself.”

Cullen’s gaze was drawn to a handful of spare pieces lined up below the shields. A familiarly designed pair of vambraces rested on a lower shelf. Templar Knight-Commander issue equipment, with the sword and flames faintly visible etched brightly on silverite that otherwise glinted dully in shadows of the armoury. Unlike regular templar armour, or even the new set with which he had been provided, these would have been infused with lyrium, at incredible expense. These vambraces could likely absorb a fireball with ease.

Cullen glanced over at Cassandra with curiosity. “Where did you get these?”

“Leliana’s agents. I am too afraid to ask for further detail.” She paused and looked apologetic. “With current supply problems, we would need a king’s ransom in lyrium to have had a full set made.”

Cullen shook his head. “You’ve already provided me with an excellent suit of armour.”

He studied the item for a moment longer and lightly traced the sword and flame. He had worn that symbol proudly for years. And then with shame as the Order had abandoned the duty entrusted to it. But it had once stood for something in which he still believed.

Cassandra’s voice startled him out of his distraction. “I doubt the Divine will be insulted if you choose to substitute a piece. The Chantry paid for both anyway.”

Cullen released an amused breath and collected the vambraces. At the very least, they might save him from having to test how well he had kept his resistance to magic now that he was no longer taking lyrium.

“Then I could hardly allow them to go to waste,” he replied dryly.

Old duty and new calling. It would be a reminder of the good that he had once believed the Order stood for whilst serving the good that the fledgling Inquisition might stand for in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter gave me a chance to make up my own reason why Cullen wears vambraces with the templar insignia)


	7. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations for the conclave begin in earnest and Cullen has a conversation with Knight-Captain Rylen following his arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to apologise to those of you reading, but this fic is on a bit of a backburner (hence the dramatic slowdown in my upload rate). To make up for that, this chapter turned into a long one. I had a lot of fun in the early chapters, but I’m becoming less and less interested in writing the events of DA:I itself, especially considering I’m not sure how I want to write or even who I want for my Inquisitor. There are plenty of other writers who’ve done a far better job with the main events than I would. I will likely add the rest of my planned chapters up to the start of DA:I at some point, but my focus is shifting to my other current fic and a WIP I’ve yet to upload (red templars, because apparently I go for fic subjects that almost no one else likes).

Greenfell

Kingsway 9:30 Dragon  


_Had Cullen the mind to see it, he might have recognised that Greenfell was beautiful. Peaceful. But peace was a lie. Quiet was dangerous. And the vast open Fereldan countryside could be just as dangerous as a Circle. Perhaps more so. Out here, not all mages could be so easily recognised. The passing traveller, nodding a polite greeting to templars; did he watch them because he was waiting to strike? The patrons in the roadside inns; did they watch him because they had heard him screaming in the night and recognised a weakness to be exploited? Away from the routine, manageable dangers of a Circle, he hardly knew when to expect an attack._

_Arriving in Greenfell was no relief. If Revered Mother Neive recognised the fine knife edge he had teetered on throughout the journey from Kinloch Hold, she didn’t acknowledge it. Her smile was gentle. The soothing expression of a woman who had dealt with more than her fair share of wary templars. Friendly eyes, and a careworn face. It was a lie. And when she requested — in the same gentle tone with which she had introduced herself — that he be relieved of his weapon and armour, his fine balance came within a hairsbreadth of failing entirely._

_She might not have been a templar, and she might have been a full head shorter than him, but her voice still held the edge of a woman used to being obeyed without question. It was only that engrained instinct to obey that held him back from the abyss of mindless, gibbering panic and hysteria. A templar without his weapons and armour was less than nothing. Stripped of duty, stripped of defences, stripped of everything that made him who he was. The ultimate punishment for his failure. All that was left was the lyrium that gave him his tenuous grip on sanity. He wasn't entirely sure it was a kindness he either wanted or deserved._

_Knight-Corporal Marvell and Ser Anton didn't give him much choice in the matter anyway. A few days of travel with him and their patience had worn out entirely. They had been willing and ready to restrain him, but it hadn’t been necessary. After weeks on constant fear, he hadn’t the will to resist as they claimed his weapons and armour. They left him kneeling in prayer in the shade of the fruit trees that sheltered monastery’s courtyard, barely distinguishable from a mere Chantry Brother._

_The Knight-Corporal’s laugh didn’t hold much humour as he bid farewell to Greenfell’s Revered Mother. He stood in the distant arched entrance to the monastery, but not quite far enough to prevent his words from carrying to Cullen. A templar always had to watch and listen for danger. Men like Knight-Corporal Marvell had forgotten that they must always be mindful of their surroundings._

_“If you ask me-" the Knight-Corporal said quietly, “or even Knight-Commander Greagoir I imagine, these walls are the only thing he’ll see for the rest of his life, Revered Mother. I can’t see him recovering from this. I know templars who have been sent here for less and have never returned.” Lush green leaves rustled in the trees overhead in counterpoint to Cullen’s whispered Chant. The Blight hadn’t reached this far yet, but it would, soon. Maybe there was Mercy to be found then. “But I wish him well. Maker grant him peace.”_

* * *

Haven

6 Whitemarch 9:40 Dragon  


Cullen had been born and spent thirteen years of his life in the open expanse of Fereldan farm country, but nigh on twenty years of his life had been spent in a succession of enclosed spaces. The Templar Order training facility in Denerim. Kinloch Hold and the bloody prison it had become. Greenfell. The Gallows. Space was a luxury that no Circle templar ever expected to be afforded. They might nominally have more freedom to leave their Circle than a mage, but even that was relative. You could hardly go far without a supply of lyrium. The Circle and the austere confines of a Templar Order barracks were all most expected to see until death or retirement. The lucky ones might even be left with enough of their minds to enjoy that retirement. Haven was a nothing like any of those places.

The bare handful of days since his arrival had been packed with tasks. Cassandra’s suggestion that he give himself a more sedate start had fallen on deaf ears. Working constantly had been a habit learned as soon as he could walk. There was always something that needed to be done on a farm. His Templar training officers had eagerly honed that tendency. A cynic would say it had been exploited to create the ideal servant, always working, never questioning. An idealist would say he had been directed down a channel that would lead to swift promotion. There was ample proof for either perspective. Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall had set the habit in stone. He lived for his duty, be it as a Knight of the Templar Order, or the Divine’s military advisor.

Yet despite the overwhelming list of things that could or should be done, every morning he gloried in the unabashed pleasure of stepping out of his tent and into the crisp open air of the Ferelden mountains, not a succession of dim corridors. There was a kind of serenity to be found in watching the sun crest over the mountains, sparkling off frozen streams and snow drifts, or listening to the whistling breeze and muffled sounds of falling snow as he climbed the paths up from Haven.

He was beginning to lose count of the number of times he had made the hike to assess the preparations for the conclave in the past days. It was a steep climb — a fact his recovering body enthusiastically reminded him of every evening — but the Temple of Sacred Ashes never failed to impress. Nestled in the lee of snow-capped crags, the simple structure seemed to be augmented rather than overshadowed by the rocky peaks. It might not have the brash grandeur of Kirkwall's lost chantry cathedral, but it had its own, more understated splendour. Certainly a step above anything that Cullen could recall from Denerim.

Despite the grand surroundings, Cullen was beginning to regret agreeing that today’s meeting be conducted in the valley holding the temple. There was certainly good reason to meet here. The vast majority of his work since arriving had been to secure and prepare the valley for the conclave. He and Josephine had been spending every daylight hour up here, overseeing the activities. But the room in Haven’s chantry they used as for planning sessions was quiet and secluded, as befit its former role as the Revered Mother’s private chambers. Most importantly, the candlelight was dim enough to avoid exacerbating the regular headaches that crept up on him. A little under two weeks since withdrawal had brought him low, and Cullen still found himself sensitive to bright lights. He could only pray it wasn’t a permanent problem.

Morning sunlight hadn’t touched anything more than the temple’s pitched rooftops, but it was still easy enough to make out the activity down below. Chantry Sisters and Brothers in bright red and crisp white to rival the snow. Templars in gleaming plate. Seeker auxiliaries and civilian volunteers in nondescript armour, the best they could obtain without an armourer. All involved in a complicated organisational dance choreographed by Josephine and Cullen.

The temple itself had been made as ready as it could be, but it had never been intended to accommodate more than a handful of Sisters and Mothers. The most important delegates would be accommodated within, including the Divine herself. For the rest, tents and camp boundaries were being marked out on the rugged land at the foot of the temple, in the hopes that its proximity would be enough to maintain peace. This valley was a far cry from the control and security of a Circle tower, and soon, it would be home to the camps of two potentially hostile factions, the majority of whom were trained in the art of war. It was a security nightmare for him and a planning nightmare for Josephine. Thankfully, there was more good news than bad. Maker willing, it would continue that way.

The slip of paper Josephine had passed to him when she arrived in the valley this morning was a small piece of good news to start the day. Knight-Captain Rylen had been a trustworthy subordinate in Kirkwall, sent by his Knight-Commander to assist in the city’s recovery. Without his assistance, Kirkwall would have been in a far worse state than it was now. Even more than a reliable templar, he had been a good friend. Maker knew why Rylen had made the effort. Cullen was under no illusions that he was an easy person to get along with. But when so many of the people he had known in Kirkwall had died or been taken by lyrium, there were vanishingly few people he could name friend. There was no one else he could even consider choosing as his second in command. It was good to know his arrival was imminent.

He offered Josephine a smile. He might not be able to fathom her mindset — how someone could ever enjoy the mires of politics and diplomacy was a constant mystery to him — but even in the short span of days he had known her, it was obvious she was competent.

“I appreciate you passing on the message, Ambassador,” he said in an aside to Josephine. “I’ll send a welcoming party to meet Knight-Captain Rylen and his men on the paths.”

Josephine returned the smile. “Judging by how highly you speak of his abilities, I imagine he will be quite the asset.” She tapped her quill against her lips before looking down at her parchment. “Unfortunately, this news may be less to your liking. Before we were quite certain of how many men would agree to join the Divine, inquires were made into hiring mercenaries to provide additional security. Offers have been tendered by a number of the groups contacted.”

“Mercenaries?” Cullen laughed disbelievingly. The last thing any of them needed was to have an undisciplined mercenary company interfering with the smooth running of the conclave. “We have a perfectly adequate force already.”

Josephine nodded down at the scatter of troops down in the valley below. “The majority of your force consists of parties who might otherwise have been active participants in the war, Commander. You yourself have admitted that the civilian volunteers cannot be trained quickly enough to take more than support positions. Mercenaries could be a truly neutral buffer.”

Cullen surreptitiously kneaded his forehead. Another headache loomed and it was barely a few hours after dawn. The glitter of sunlight on the snow-capped peaks suddenly seemed more of a bright glare, perfectly angled to drill into his eyes. It was hardly helping.

“I can see the logic,” he admitted grudgingly. Placing his own templar or seeker forces as a buffer between the two camps had been a minor source of anxiety over the past few days. Old habits were hard to break. It would be easy for the mage delegates to see them as aggressors, and for his own men to instinctively side with templars delegates in response. The same challenges applied to his mages. “But can you truly find a trustworthy group?” he questioned. “Mercenaries rarely have good reputations.”

Josephine handed over a few loose sheets. “These groups come highly recommended. Now that you have joined us, it is your decision as to whether they would be of use.”

Cullen studied the pages. Barrow’s Hand. Fereldan mercenaries. Primarily worked on merchants’ guard contracts. He shook his head and flipped to the next. “Excellent references, but they would be overworked on a contract of this scale,” he told Josephine absently. The next was discarded too. “Experience against apostates is useful, but templars serve that purpose far better.” Cullen nearly laughed outright at the next one. “Light cavalry? We’re on a mountain.”

Josephine laughed. “Chantry coin is tempting. You can see why your input was necessary.”

“Maker’s breath. Qunari,” Cullen muttered with a subdued wince as he skimmed the final page. He recognised enough Qunlat from his time in Kirkwall to identify the origin of the name. “They would not be considered ‘neutral’ in Kirkwall. The Qunari hate the Chantry. I can’t see why they would want the contract.”

“They are Tal Vashoth, not Qunari,” Leliana corrected him lightly, materialising from behind a stand of trees that Cullen could have sworn was too sparse to conceal anyone.

He thought he did admirably well in concealing a flinch. He had just barely stopped cringing every time he saw her now — perhaps because she still hadn’t mentioned Kinloch Hold — but she had a habit of appearing unexpectedly. He supposed at some point he ought to speak to her about the breaking of the Circle. Maker knew what she must think having him as a military commander. The man she had seen ten years ago hadn’t been fit to make sensible decisions for himself, let alone command a small army. But he had put off the task for days now. It took a far braver man to face that than he was.

“Fortunately, we are not in Kirkwall,” she continued, “and I have already vetted them. Their reputation is well earned.”

Cullen had to acknowledge that they seemed the most competent of the selection. “Fine,” he sighed, shifting his mental map of the valley below to accommodate the change. “The Valo-Kas are the best choice by far and the additional numbers would admittedly be welcome. Send me full details of their strengths, composition, and an expected arrival date. I’ll adjust my plans accordingly.”

“Of course, Commander,” Josephine announced. “Since you climbed all the way up here, Leliana, I assume you have news?”

Leliana nodded and strolled up to join them on the overlook. “My spies have brought word of an encampment of templars on the lower slopes of the Frostbacks.”

Cullen’s attention sharpened, burgeoning headache forgotten. “Then my suspicions were correct?”

“It would seem so. We must discuss how they should be handled.”

“Were your scouts able to determine their intentions?”

“It is hard to say. They moved every day. It made them difficult to track, but they seem to have settled in one location now.” She shrugged. “Perhaps they believe it is a good time to begin intercepting travellers.”

“How do their numbers compare to our own?”

Leliana frowned into the valley, as if the templars below were to be trusted as little as the renegades. “Eighteen Knights-Templar, three Knights-Corporal, and a Knight-Lieutenant. All under the command of a Knight-Captain.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Enough to form their own small garrison. But not a problem for us.” He allowed his own gaze to drift into the valley. It would be an excellent opportunity to trial his mixed squads. “Have a scout ready to lead me to them at dawn tomorrow. I pray they are willing to leave peacefully.”

“Certainly, Commander.”

Josephine cleared her throat. “Perhaps you might convince them to join our side.” She offered an amused smile as both Cullen and Leliana gave her a dubious look. “As Leliana said, we do not know their intentions. No one has been attacked yet.”

“If they meant well, they would have no reason to conceal themselves. But it does no harm to try,” Cullen sighed. “Far better if we could avoid any more bloodshed in this war.”

In the few interactions they had had, Leliana rarely faced him directly, but she did so now, hands planted on her hips. “It is a risk, Commander,” Leliana told him brusquely.

Cullen surveyed the sweeping lines of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, fully lit now by the crisp and cold light of winter sunshine. “It is the risk we are have already chosen to take.”

~~~~

It was a weary group of templars that arrived in Haven that afternoon. They laughed and joked with the men Cullen had sent to guide them, but it was obvious that it had been a long and difficult journey from distant Starkhaven. Weary faces brightened as the village and the makeshift camp outside came into view and for just a moment, their marching broke its rhythm.

A figure in Knight-Captain’s armour pulled ahead of the rest of the small group as they descended the path into Haven. He tugged off his helm and marched up to Cullen, wide grin far outshining the smile that flickered across Cullen’s face.

“So this is Ferelden, eh, Knight-Commander?” he called out as he approached. He shook his head and eyed Cullen’s armour appreciatively. “Or Commander, I should say. You meant it when you said you were cutting ties.”

Cullen clasped the man’s arm. “It’s good to have you here, Rylen. I hope your journey went smoothly?”

“Miserable country to travel through,” Rylen replied with a grimace. “We underestimated travel times in these conditions. Lost all the time I thought we’d gain by leaving earlier than expected.”

Cullen gave a wry chuckle. “You’re not alone there. I imagine you and Varric will get on well. Although surprisingly, Karellian hasn’t said a word.”

The pair stepped to one side as the first of Rylen’s templars began to march past. They saluted sharply to Rylen, belatedly adding another for Cullen as they recognised him. There were a few familiar faces of those who had been sent to assist in Kirkwall’s recovery. It was almost amusing to see their startlement as they registered who he was. He knew from his own experience how disconcerting it could be to see a superior officer without the expected display of rank. There was something aggrieved in the reaction, as if the commanding officer in question had unfairly snuck up on them.

Rylen surveyed the passing column with a combined critical and proud eye before turning back to Cullen with a snort. “Maybe he’s just taking it out on your recruits. The Knight-Lieutenant you sent to meet us was telling me you’ve got civilian volunteers?”

Cullen winced and resisted the temptation to look over his shoulder at their makeshift training ground. It was almost painful to watch how some of the trainees treated shields like a decorative item. “Indeed. It’s far too early to tell how competent they are, but they could be worse.”

“'Could be worse' is reasonable praise. They’re probably better than than some of the templars we’ve had to deal with over the years.” Rylen’s face darkened. “A few of my men deserted soon after we entered Ferelden. Stole some lyrium too.”

“I can have scouts sent to track them down,” Cullen suggested. “There are far too many reports of renegade templars in Ferelden.”

Rylen waved away the offer. “They’ll be heading straight to Val Royeaux. Couldn’t keep their mouths shut about how they thought we shouldn’t be ignoring the Lord Seeker. But our supply was tight for the rest of the journey.”

Cullen lurched slightly, muscles twinging with a sympathetic memory of that pain. He recovered with a quiet cough. “The quartermaster will provide you with an adequate supply. I-” He stopped again and cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’m not required to handle lyrium distribution.”

Rylen’s gaze sharpened on Cullen with something between suspicion and confusion. “You handled all our lyrium in Kirkwall. Surely they should trust a Knight-Commander — former or otherwise — not to skim from the stores.”

“It’s not that,” Cullen sighed. The conversation needed to happen one way or another, he just hadn’t meant for it to come up so soon. “We should speak this evening, once you’re settled.”

“Right you are, Commander,” Rylen replied cautiously. “Just point me in the right direction.”

Cullen suppressed a sigh at Rylen’s sudden wary tension and accepted the man’s salute with a nod. “Knight-Lieutenant Galeim will see you settled. Come by my tent after nightfall.”

~~~~

By the time Cullen returned to his tent that evening, the morning’s mild headache had become something far more insidious. The day had been going well. He hadn’t even needed to remind himself that his morning didn’t start with a dose of lyrium. He had been focused, free of distraction. Right until the subject of lyrium had inevitably come up. The quartermaster had unwittingly asked for his approval for providing lyrium rations to the new arrivals. Even that might not have been too bad. Except that the crate of lyrium in question had been sitting right next to her at the time. Its enchanting chorus echoed far more deeply now that he no longer took it.

He still wasn’t quite sure whether the blue gleam on the snow had just been a trick of the light, or whether someone had actually spilled a vial. Thank the Maker the quartermaster hadn’t been too bothered by the fact that he had stared blankly at that point behind her left arm for a little too long before responding to her request. When his scattered thoughts had finally marshalled themselves into something approaching order, he had been perhaps a little too harsh in ensuring an adequate supply for every templar who chose to follow the Divine. She had handled his anger more calmly than he deserved.

He pushed his way into his tent, ducking his head instinctively to avoid brushing his head against the low canvas ceiling, and lit the lamp on the camp table serving as his desk. The comforting glow was just dim enough to avoid exacerbating his throbbing headache.

As Commander, he had the questionable honour of a tent to himself. There was the desk, a narrow camp bed shoved in the opposite corner, a chest that was far too big for his meagre possessions, and serviceable stands for his weapons and armour. It made his spartan quarters in the Gallows’ Templar Hall seem palatial in comparison. Aside from not sharing with three others, there was little to separate it from the tents homing the rest of his men. He had rejected Josephine’s offer of accommodation in the chantry with the excuse that he would rather be closer to his troops. In truth, it seemed polite to avoid disturbing them with his restless sleep. Tonight was one of those nights when that was likely to be a sensible decision. Even in his days as a recruit, he had been accused of talking in his sleep. Whether or not it had been true then, it certainly was now. At least in this tent, open air was only a step away when the nightmares came.

He eased himself carefully into the campaign chair behind his desk. Despite the lingering gauntness of the withdrawal period, the flimsy item creaked beneath his weight. In theory, it should have been sturdy enough to take a man in full armour. In practice, even his half plate was a risk.

A freshly filled bottle of water perched precariously on the corner of his desk. He eyed it resentfully. The water was crystal clear and utterly pure, collected from a mountain spring and stored in barrels in the chantry cellar. Completely unlike the water in Kirkwall. It was also decidedly not what his subconscious mind was looking for right now. No amount of imagination could give water the metallic burn of lyrium, however much his mind’s eye might fool him into believing it glowed blue.

With a sigh, he directed his attention back towards the outstanding reports. Night fell quickly in the Fereldan winter, but there was still plenty that could be done before fatigue forced him to brave sleep. It was an inevitable fact that a commanding officer’s desk collected piles of paper, often without anyone ever seeming to drop them off. Over the years, as Knight-Commander Meredith had focused more on her position as Kirkwall’s steward, the task of overseeing the Gallows had fallen to him. Haven might hold a mere fraction of the hundreds of men he had once managed on a daily basis, but the level of activity more than made up for it. Preparing for the conclave was a far cry from the organised routine in a Circle. Thankfully, it wasn’t anywhere close to the utter chaos after the chantry explosion, but it was just busy enough to be an interesting challenge.

He moved from putting the final finishing touches on assignments for security details and patrols across the Haven region on to the small pile of reports. It hardly mattered whether a force was in a secure Circle, a city garrison, or on top of a Fereldan mountain. The only difference here — one to which he was having difficulty adapting — was that the mages weren’t his charges to keep secure. Thankfully, they seemed as uncertain of how to handle the redefined relationship as he was. Still, their needs remained the same, it was only the details of how to attend to those needs that changed.

A detailed outline from Knight-Corporal Damian on a training regime for their civilian volunteers rested on the very top of the pile. The man had just barely managed to avoid expressing his surprise at being given the role. He had served as a training officer in Kirkwall, right until he had failed to properly report missing recruits. It had taken years before he had been approved for promotion back up to Knight-Corporal. Even then, he hadn’t been assigned back to recruit training. But there were far fewer places to lose trainees here, and he had the necessary background to make him the only reasonable choice. Cullen skimmed the outline and nodded in approval. At least Damian was taking Cullen’s general commands to heart. There was no better way to encourage unity between his men than to have the more experienced join in and assist in the training of those with less experience. He added his own name on the rotation — a change in role wouldn’t prevent him from resuming his habit of daily drills — and moved on to the next task.

Without the regularly tolling of bells to mark the hour, time passed quickly in a blur of completed tasks. He snapped his head up from the final report at the sound of a polite cough from outside, the best anyone could do without a door.

“Enter,” he called, setting aside the document. With a start, he realised that he had drained the entire flask of water as he worked. “Maker’s breath,” he muttered, scrubbing at his face. He might drown if he drank much more water., but his throat felt like sandpaper.

Rylen strolled into the tent, a small grin on his face. There was no sign that he had spent the past few weeks on a long and tiring journey from the Free Marches on limited lyrium supply. “They’d have to kill you to stop you working, eh, Commander?”

Cullen chuckled and offered a loose shrug, itching throat momentarily forgotten. “I hardly know what to do with myself otherwise.” He gestured apologetically to the camp bed. “I’m afraid that’s the best I can offer as far as a seat goes. I’d offer you mine, but I’m not sure it could take the weight of full armour.”

“Even our temporary barracks in Starkhaven was better,” Rylen replied with a look somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “Not quite up to the standard of the Gallows.”

“Thank the Maker,” Cullen replied fervently. “I would happily never see the Gallows again.”

He shuddered slightly as he spoke. He couldn’t remember much of his time spent in severe withdrawal, but from what little he had gathered, his feverish mind had returned there almost as often as the Circle Tower. There were no fond memories to be found in either place. Not all of his nightmares were of Kinloch Hold these days.

“So,” Rylen began as he sat. The bed creaked almost as much as the chair, shaking Cullen out of his unpleasant reverie. “You wanted to speak with me, Commander?”

“This is an informal conversation, Rylen. But-” he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “As my second-in-command, there is something you should know. Should I suddenly deteriorate, you will need to take command until Lady Cassandra can find a replacement. I would rather you were not taken by surprise.”

Rylen leaned forwards, elbows resting on his knees and a concerned frown creasing his brow. “You’re not ill, are you?” Piercing eyes swept over Cullen’s face, searching for some sign of illness in the dim lantern light. “There must be a healer somewhere amongst the mages you have here. Mad idea to have mixed squads, by the by. But we’ll make it work.”

“Not ill. Or at least, not in a way that a healer could address in any meaningful way.” Cullen returned Rylen’s piercing look. “This information goes no further than your ears unless I say otherwise, Rylen. I do not intend to allow my personal decisions to influence others, one way or another. But Maker willing, it is a situation that will soon cease to be relevant.”

Rylen nodded, any hint of light-heartedness replaced by the serious focus that was part of what made him such a competent officer. “I swear on Andraste’s pyre,” he replied, hand on heart. “You know by now that you can trust me, Cullen.”

“Of course.”

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for a conversation that was bound to be difficult. Only a few months ago, he would have called a templar mad for making the decision that he had made. He would never have permitted any serving templar under his command to stop taking lyrium. As much as he might have grown to resent it, lyrium was a requirement of service, as much as the vows they swore. A templar was bound for life, whether or not they were officially knights of the Order. It didn’t take much imagination to guess what Rylen’s reaction would be to the news. With the looming danger of madness or death, it was unthinkable for a commanding officer to take the risk of forsaking lyrium, even if they were no longer a templar. And Rylen might not ever have acknowledged it, but he had to have recognised Cullen’s turbulent relationship with lyrium in the years after the chantry explosion in Kirkwall. He wished he could say that his intake had been perfectly regimented since his initiation, but that would have been a blatant lie. It was still difficult to believe that he had got through the near-fatal withdrawal with nothing more than manageable lingering symptoms.

He exhaled and clasped his hands on the desk in front of him, focusing on the interlocking fingers. _Maker_ _’s breath,_ he thought. _This shouldn_ _’t be so difficult to admit._

“I … have stopped taking lyrium.”

Rylen huffed out a short laugh. “I thought your sense of humour was better than that.”

A vague attempt at a smirk flickered across Cullen’s face before disappearing entirely. “This is not a joke,” he sighed. Disbelief was precisely the kind of reaction that Cullen himself would have had.

Rylen blinked. “You can’t be serious,” he said incredulously. His eyes swept over Cullen again, looking for all the signs that an experienced officer would recognise to mark out a withdrawing templar. Glazed eyes. Feverish skin. Shaking hands. Cullen met that searching gaze steadily. He had none of those signs today, thank the Maker.

At the curt nod of confirmation, Rylen sucked in short gasp, eyes widening. “Maker above. Are you _mad,_ Cullen? Why in Andraste’s name would you do a thing like that? This will kill you!” He stood and began to move off for the tent’s entrance. “You will take one of mine right now.”

Cullen shot up from his seat. In the cramped confines of the tent, it took only one step before he was close enough to catch Rylen’s arm in a steel grip, pulling him short of the tent flap. A larger part of him than he was willing to admit wanted to let Rylen go. To take the vial that Rylen was offering. The other hand settled on his sword hilt, drawing an inch of steel with the silken ring of well-oiled metal. He didn’t know whether it was to stop Rylen or to allow him to demand lyrium at the point of a blade.

 _Rylen is good, but he almost never bested you in single combat_ , a part of his mind whispered.

Rylen registered the grip on his arm and the part-bared blade with cold lyrium anger. Cullen returned the stare with a glacial one of his own. He had commanded men in one of the harshest Circles in Thedas for almost his entire career. An angry templar would hardly cow him.

“You will not, Knight-Captain Rylen,” he snapped.

Rylen growled in fury and ran a hand through bedraggled hair.  “I didnae say a word when I saw what you were doing to yourself in Kirkwall, Knight-Commander,” he replied, accent thickening as his anger grew. “But I cannae do that again. I willnae have you kill yourself as some ludicrous penance to soothe your guilt.”

Cullen crushed the longing to hear that beautiful melody hum through his blood again. Ignored the itching behind his eyes. Loosened his painful grip on his sword. Shoved aside the whispering voice. He had resisted the countless visions of a demon for Maker knew how many days or weeks. This could also be endured. The cowards way out was not an option. The sword settled back in its sheath with a click.

“I am no longer a templar, let alone a Knight-Commander. And I am doing no such thing,” he replied curtly. “This is my decision. I have taken no lyrium since I left Kirkwall, and I will continue in that vein. This will not defeat me.”

“Maferath’s hairy balls, man,” Rylen swore, a sure sign of towering fury in an otherwise clean speaking man. His Starkhaven accent had become almost impenetrable. “If not that, then why?”

Cullen had never seen him so angry. Angry enough to forget even a semblance of deference to a commanding officer. Cullen had enough anger of his own that the insubordination passed him by.

“You know exactly why, Rylen!” he snapped in response, just barely keeping his voice low enough to avoid alerting the entire camp to the argument. “Lyrium chains us to the Chantry. We can do nothing without their say because they have it held over our heads. They ask us to sacrifice our minds and bodies to serve. And what has that service become? Jailers. Executioners. Maker knows how many I have killed or have died because of me. l have had enough. I want none of it. I want to be free.”

“Free?!” Rylen scoffed. “Oh yes, there will be plenty of freedom for you when you cross the Veil. When we take lyrium, we become bound for life, far more tightly than our vows bind us. _Life_ , Cullen. We all accept those chains when we choose to be ordained as templars. You break free when you stand by the Maker’s side.”

He tugged himself free of Cullen’s grip and began to pace in the limited space available, head scraping the canvas ceiling, accompanied by a stream of searing invective.

“You will respect this decision, Knight-Captain,” Cullen ordered icily, “or you will leave this force.”

Rylen’s laugh was incredulous. “Sweet Andraste, you know I cannae do that. Our lyrium supply barely lasted to Haven. If we’d been delayed any further, we’d have been crawling here on our hands and knees, or worse, dead in this Maker-forsaken Fereldan snow. I cannae leave without choosing to become as mad as you are.” He raised his arms in a helpless shrug. “For all I know, this is the delirium speaking already.”

“My mind is the clearest it has been for weeks,” he growled. And it was. The haze that had characterised the journey here was long gone, just as the grim resignation of his final months in Kirkwall had dissipated. He stabbed a finger towards Rylen’s breast, as if the bright glow of the lyrium being pumped around by his heart would reveal itself. “But that is precisely the problem. We are bound to whomever holds our lyrium.”

“So what makes this proto-Inquisition any better?” Rylen countered acidly. “They still have control over our lyrium. Your quartermaster wouldn’t give us any until we had your approval.”

“They are better because you can _choose_. I have rectified the situation with the quartermaster. I will ensure that no templar under my command is deprived of lyrium for any reason, even if they choose to leave, if I have to use my own coin to do it. And if anyone wishes to free themselves entirely, I will see that no one speaks against the decision.”

“Maker,” Rylen exhaled with a shaky laugh. With the anger fading away, the real emotion driving it showed itself in his wide eyes. “We’re both sworn to the same vow of poverty, and I was a Knight-Captain too, Cullen. I know your stipend was as terrible as mine. You don’t have any coin left.”

“No,” Cullen sighed in agreement. He could probably afford a few months’ supply. Less with the shortages now. With a limited supply and merchants seeking to cover the costs of hiring additional guards to protect against the banditry from renegade templars, prices had shot up impossibly high. Even more than ever, it took Chantry coin to afford enough. “But the point still holds.”

“By Andraste and all that is holy. First you leave the Order, then you try and free yourself from lyrium. You are mad,” Rylen repeated with a disbelieving shudder. “But I respect what you’re doing. It scares the life out of me, but I respect it.”

“It scared me to make the decision and it still scares me now. Facing an abomination without armour is easier.” Cullen dropped back into the camp chair. “I need to do this, Rylen.” His shoulders slumped. “I’ve placed my faith in the wrong things so many times, but I have never been more certain of this.”

“If you feel you have to…” Rylen shrugged helplessly. “I cannae stop you. But I cannae believe that Karellian would have been any happier about this than I am. Does he know?”

“You are the only one I have told explicitly, but he has implied that he does,” Cullen replied. “He wants no further details.”

“Merciful Maker” Rylen muttered. “That’s hardly a surprise. _I_ don’t want details. If you tell me any, I’m leaving. And the Seeker?” His eyes drifted to the tent flap, as if expecting her to be appear at the mere mention of her title. “She must have been even less happy.”

Cullen managed a weak smile. “It was the second condition of my accepting this position. Surprisingly, she approved of the decision.” He paused awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck again. “If not my choice in method. She would have preferred a more cautious approach.”

 Rylen ran a hand over his face, suddenly looking for more tired than his thirty-five years warranted. It made Cullen wonder just how close to the edge Rylen was. The man was five years his senior, and they had both been taking lyrium for a third of their lives. Younger templars than them had fallen to addiction or dementia. Cullen feared he had been standing at the very edge of that pit himself. A few more months, or a few years at best, and he might have fallen without any hope of climbing back out this time.

“Be careful, Cullen,” Rylen said finally, with quiet vehemence. “I respect you as a friend and a colleague. Just … try not to kill yourself.” He offered a weak smile. “I don’t especially want to replace you. I never wanted to be a Knight-Commander.”

Cullen chuckled, more because it was an offer to lighten the tension than because he was genuinely amused. He hadn’t wanted to be a Knight-Commander either. It had been ridiculous to even consider the idea. But the Maker had had other plans. Maybe he was consigning a friend to the same fate.

“I don’t intend to give up quite yet. At least not until the war is over.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Commander.” With a final vehement curse, Rylen picked his helmet off the camp bed and stalked out of the tent, posture tighter than a bowstring.

Cullen breathed a sigh of relief. All things considered, that could have gone worse. At least Rylen hadn’t tried to have him relieved then and there. He would probably have been justified in trying, and Cullen could hardly protest the idea of a Knight-Captain relieving a patently mad superior officer of duty.

He made a vague attempt at completing the final outstanding tasks for the day before giving up with a sigh. He grabbed his sword and shield from their stand and stalked out into the cold night air. Without lyrium, he had to rely on other ways to mask emotions. It was a bare handful of steps to take him from his tent to the dummies set up on the training ground.

The air echoed with rhythmic thuds and his measured breaths as he ran through a mock assault on the dummy by dim starlight and the distant torches on Haven’s gates. It was peaceful out here, and he allowed his mind to focus on nothing but the familiar movements.

He was drawn out of his concentration by the impact of boots on hard-packed earth. He glanced over his shoulder and frowned slightly. Cassandra had settled herself in to watch him at a sensible range.

“When I said watch me, I didn't mean for you to follow me every hour of the day.”

It was too dark for Cullen to truly make the movement out, but he imagined she was rolling her eyes. “Drills are a good path to finding clarity. Clearly you felt in need of the same.”

Cullen stopped his assault on the training dummy. “Perhaps,” he allowed.

“Perhaps I can interest you in a duel then.” Cassandra drew her own blade and gestured to Cullen. “You need not fear that I will judge you.”

Cullen hesitated, lowering his sword slightly. “You noticed, then?”

“Of course, Commander. You have been reluctant to show any sign of weakness in front of your men.” She saluted with her sword and dropped into a ready stance. “And so I offer my services until you believe you have regained your strength.”

Cullen exhaled and settled his weapons more comfortably in his hands. There was a small part of him that worried he might not be able to regain his lost strength this time, but this was the safest way to confirm or deny the theory. If nothing else, it was a far better release of tension to duel against a real person than abusing an inanimate training dummy.

“Then I could hardly refuse,” he replied.

They duelled backwards and forwards across the hard-packed earth of the makeshift training ground. Cullen found himself smiling, the tension working out of his shoulders as he settled into the rhythm of thrusts and parries. Crisp mountain air rushed in and out of his lungs as he countered and defended against Cassandra’s measured assault.

“Maker,” he panted finally, cold leaching into his back as he lay flat out on the ground. She had sent him flying before he could react. “I believe you win, Lady Cassandra.”

He accepted her extended hand and allowed her to pull him back up. She looked almost as sweat-soaked as Cullen felt, despite the chill of a winter night in the Frostbacks. They had exchanged more than a few touches during the practice duel. He had the edge in reach over her, but they were evenly matched in strength, for now. She was certainly skilled. In real combat, the outcome might have been less certain, but Seekers were considered the elite for good reason.

“You fought well,” she replied politely. “It will be a far more difficult fight if you continue to progress this way.”

Cullen waved off the compliment. Assuming he didn’t fall into a relapse, or his symptoms didn’t worsen beyond headaches, or any other number of possible outcomes from forsaking lyrium. His position would no longer be a front line one until he was quite certain he wouldn’t put anyone at risk by doing so.

“There is still work to be done.” He rolled his shoulders and winced. First a climb up to the temple, and then a challenging mock duel. His muscles would complain tomorrow.

Cassandra shrugged. “Perhaps. But if you can hold your own against a Seeker for that long, you needn’t worry that you might embarrass yourself in front of your men. Provided you continue to eat enough to regain and maintain your strength.” She paused and folded her arms. “ _Have_ you eaten today?”

Cullen cleared his throat awkwardly. The last meal he could recall had been breakfast before dawn. He had been too absorbed in preparing for the arrival of Rylen and his fellow Starkhavers to stop. “Yes?”

Cassandra rolled her eyes and beckoned him towards Haven’s gates. “You should not push yourself so hard so soon after your recovery, Commander. Come. The tavern might still have something.”

Cullen followed her with a rueful shake of his head. Her kind attention was probably more than he deserved, but there was a part of him that was grateful. He couldn’t recall the last time that anyone had cared about the fate of a templar, let alone a failed one like him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is canon that all the potential Inquisitor race options were present, so I still have time to decide who I want. There's a token bit of story progression to the conclave in this chapter, but I'm having more fun with my side elements...


	8. Different Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen faces the Templar renegades on the paths to Haven

Frostback Mountains

7 Whitemarch 9:41 Dragon  


Haven was far enough up the Frostbacks that it was only rarely cloud covered. They had left the village in the clean half-light of dawn, but the pathways up into the mountains were a far different matter. Their visibility had been cut down by a thick blanket of mist until it was barely possible to see beyond the first line of scrubby trees bordering the path. Any sound they made was dulled by a combination of the thick blanket of snow and the layer of fog. The conditions were excellent for avoiding being detected from a distance. They were also excellent for failing to detect a sentry until it was too late. Given the number of men Cullen had with him to investigate the renegade templars, the only thing they would be able to sneak up on was a corpse.

“Thank the Maker for scouts,” Cullen murmured to himself. Templar training covered plenty of skill sets, but the early training of a templar recruit focused on the core aspects of their service in the Order and in Circles. His subsequent development had been almost exclusively focused on a rapid scramble to absorb the enigmatic arts of command before he made a fool of himself. Anything other than tracking a magical target or the most obvious trail signs was utterly beyond him. For that, he had always needed to rely on the specially-trained templar scouts and mage hunters.

He glanced behind, checking on the troops marching behind him. These four squads represented the most accomplished of those forming the Divine’s force. In the diffuse light of a mist-wreathed dawn, they actually looked the part. It was far too early to say how they would perform, but there was sufficient cumulative experience to make them a competent group as a whole. In theory. In practice, there was good reason for over-staffing himself with senior officers. None of them had much experience operating as a combined force. They needed to observe. To make improvements. Maker willing, they wouldn’t see combat today, but caution was justified in the circumstances.

The ride down the mountain paths had been quiet. He, Karellian and Fabian were veteran enough not to feel the need to relieve tension by talking. But it was obvious from the way Karellian’s jaw kept clenching that he wanted to say something.

“What is it, Ser Karellian?” Cullen asked with a sigh.

Karellain grimaced. “I hear we’re getting Qunari mercenaries, Commander,” he commented with the barest trace of disbelief.

Cullen raised an eyebrow at Karellian. He’d only received the news himself the previous day, but it was no surprise that rumour was getting around already. Clearly Haven was worse than the templar barracks for gossip.

“They should be with us a week before the conclave,” he confirmed. “The command staff will receive a full briefing as soon as Ambassador Montilyet provides their group disposition.”

Karellian mulled over the statement with another grimace. Any citizen of Kirkwall would know what he was thinking.

Fabian moved up to ride level with Karellian. “Is that a problem?”

“They invaded Kirkwall,” Karellian stated flatly. “And they hated the Chantry.”

“I’ve been informed that they are not in any way linked to the Qunari out of Kirkwall,” Cullen replied with a sigh. “They are Tal Vashoth, apparently.”

“Good thing too,” Karellian growled. “I wouldn’t trust them anywhere near me otherwise.”

Fabian shifted in his saddle to face Karellian fully and gave him a dubious look. “From what I’ve heard, Qunari are exactly the kind of trained fighters I’d want on my side.”

“You might reth-” A polite clearing of a throat broke Karellian off mid sentence.

Even knowing that he was there, it took a long moment to spot the scout slouching in the dappled shadows of a snow-covered pine tree.

Karellian cursed under his breath. “He could have taught Forthrin’s scouts a thing or two,” he muttered quietly.

Cullen signalled a halt and hopped off his horse. The scout saluted casually and stepped up lightly to meet Cullen, boots leaving improbably shallow imprints in the snow.

“You’re getting close now, Commander,” he informed Cullen. He crouched down and sketched out a map in the snow. “Their camp is set back from the road. Sentries here, here, and here.”

Cullen studied the rough sketch as Karellian and Fabian crunched through the snow to join them. “Has anyone left the camp?”

“No, Commander. They haven’t done more than post sentries for a few days.” The scout stood and delicately brushed a patch of snow off his clothing. “This is your problem to handle now.”

Cullen nodded a brusque thanks and clasped his hands behind his back. The commanding officer of these renegades was clearly competent enough. Theirs was a good location, all things considered. The only shortfall was to have only three sentries, but given how few templars Leliana had said they had on hand, they could hardly do much else. Otherwise, there was no shortage of clean water thanks to the regular snowfalls. There was a steep cliff climbing up to their rear, covering one of the approaches. The camp was far enough from the path that no one was going to stumble across them unexpectedly. Close enough that they wouldn’t need to travel a long distance over uneven ground. Templar equipment was perfectly designed to face off against mages, demons, and abominations. Less so for hiking through mountains. He had been glad to leave his robes behind in Kirkwall.

The fact that they hadn’t moved in days suggested they intended to be here for a while. He sincerely doubted they had a benign reason for camping in a location that just so happened to give them such easy access to both the Imperial Highway and the paths to Haven. It seemed unlikely they were following the Lord Seeker’s orders. He had publicly announced his intention to attend the conclave along with a delegation of those Knights-Commander who had openly aligned themselves with him. And besides, the Lord Seeker had enough backing to take a far more obvious stand than a paltry handful of templars if he had wanted.

More likely, this was the decision of an overzealous Knight-Commander who had chosen to go their own way. There were few enough Knights-Commander serving in Thedas that he probably could have named most of them and their postings. In the days before the Nevarran Accord had broken, he had read missives from enough of them to gain a measure of their attitudes. Some Knights-Commander had proposed an aggressively militant stance to the growing unrest in the Circles. Usually those who demanded the harshest measures had been the ones who hadn’t served in Circles and so didn’t have the direct experience to recognise that it would have turned an already chaotic situation into a bloodbath. Compared to what some of them had wanted, the suggestions of some Circle Knights-Commander seem downright reasonable. He could even hazard a guess as to which Fereldan Knight-Commander had ordered templars out here. It was almost a shame not to have a chance to confront the man face-to-face.

He felt an unexpected thrill of anticipation as he planned his approach. This was nothing so complex as leading templars to defend a city against a Qunari invasion. Nothing so bloody as the chaos after the explosion of Kirkwall’s chantry either, thank the Maker. But it was good to be presented with a challenge they might actually be able to resolve peacefully.

By the time Karellian and Fabian had settled themselves in on either side of the crude map, Cullen had his plan. “Ser Karellian. You and your squad will neutralise the sentry to the west. Captain Fabian, the east. I want them taken alive if possible, but do not allow them to betray your position. Then move in on the camp and wait for my signal. Understood?”

He received matched nods and salutes. In this, he had the utmost confidence in their abilities. The stakes were low and their experience would be enough to compensate for any rough patches in their subordinates’ performance.

“Good. Then we move.”

On foot now, they slipped into the line of trees. Cullen glanced briefly over his shoulder at the main body of troops behind with him. Impassive Templars, armour gleaming in the grey light, Sword of Mercy a proud sign on their chests. Stoic Seeker auxiliaries. A small cadre of those civilian volunteers with prior combat experience. And the mages, staffs in hand and clad in the same light leathers as the volunteers. There was still that small whispering part of him that hated having them at his back. They looked like apostates. Strictly they _were_ apostates. Or apostates with Chantry approval, which was an even stranger concept. Apostates were dangerous.

He ignored the voice. The days when he had let those thoughts influence his actions were long gone. In all, it was precisely the image he wanted to show these potentially renegade templars. _Times have changed. The Order_ must _change with them, or it will be lost._

When he judged they were close to the sentry’s location, he signalled a halt and gestured one of the mages to join him. The diminutive Auber, talented Force mage from Kirkwall, had proven just as much of an asset as Cullen had expected. In another life, if he hadn’t been granted the gift — or curse — of magic, he might have made a good Templar. A few more hand-picked troops joined him. Shailynn, once a hunter in the Brecilian forest, had joined the Divine looking for a higher calling after years serving a Bann. Knights-Templar Olis and Giraud, veterans from Kirkwall and distant Ghislain, serving as unquestioningly now as they had in their Circles. Hanellor, a rookie Seeker auxiliary who had found herself serving a fracturing order only months after her recruitment. A bare week in Haven, and he had already found that every one of the people under his command had a unique story of how they had ended up serving the Divine. More importantly, aside from Auber, they were all people with a degree of experience in scouting or tracking. Certainly enough to subdue even the most vigilant Templar sentry.

Cullen allowed Shailynn take the lead. She was the expert here. She sloped through the trees almost as lightly as Leliana’s scout, stopping and starting with the breeze to mask the muffled crunch of snow underneath her boots. Cullen and the pair of templars followed from the rear with Auber, far enough that the sound of armour wouldn’t give their position away.

It seemed to take only minutes for Shailynn to find their target. She crouched in the shade of a tree and caught Cullen’s eye, dipping her head to their left. The gradual warmth of sunshine had burnt off enough mist to allow him to spot what had caught her eye. Off in the indicated direction, Cullen could see the vibrant maroon of Fereldan Templar robes. The sentry had made no effort to conceal himself, perhaps in the belief that simply seeing a templar would be enough to discourage any opportunistic attacks. He stood almost statue-like in an open clearing, head sweeping from one side to another in a smooth arc.

Cullen found himself nodding in approval as if the templar was a subordinate in his own Circle. They might be days’ travel from anything approaching civilisation, but this sentry hadn’t forgotten his training. Watch for anything out of place. Always pay attention.

Unfortunately for him, the weather conditions worked against him. Watching for anything out of the ordinary in the organised routine of a Circle was one thing, but in the misty darkness beneath the trees, they were simply one shadow to join the rest. And even the best templar couldn’t remain perfectly vigilant forever. Cullen could certainly remember his own struggles to stay alert after a long night on watch. Incipient lyrium withdrawal would only make concentration more difficult. It was too far to really make out details, but Cullen would bet the templar’s hand was clutched in a death-grip about his bow.

At a gesture from Cullen, Hanellor shot off back into the trees to bring the others. Cullen beckoned Auber forwards. He was intimately familiar with the limitations of templar abilities and had counted himself as reasonably skilled with the abilities granted by lyrium. Not the best in the Gallows — that title probably would have gone to Meredith, especially after she had begun to carry a sword laced with pure red lyrium — but good enough to know that the sentry was too far away to silence a mage. Some mages had the strength and focus to overcome a templar’s abilities. For the rest, a hostile apostate had three options; keep a supply of expensive black market lyrium potions to overcome the block a templar placed on them, surprise and overwhelm them before they could draw on their abilities, or attack from a range where they could avoid a templar’s magical damping and negating abilities.

A large part of him hated using his experience to have a mage cast against a templar. But he trusted Auber not to abuse his position, and the skills of a force mage were the easiest way to restrain the sentry before he could raise an alarm.

And — the voice of paranoia eagerly reminded him — there were two templars and one ex-templar to rescue the situation in the worst case scenario.

Auber nodded firmly as Cullen pointed out the sentry. Cullen stepped back as the mage straightened and drew the simple staff from his back. Regulation Kirkwall equipment for a mage, approved by the Order as a low-risk design least likely to overload. It was a legacy of a time when no one but the First Enchanter himself had been able to gain permission for a custom staff. Even after Meredith had died, they hadn’t had the funds or the resources to change.

Cullen felt the shimmer of magic in the air as Auber twirled his staff. He tensed instinctively. A part of him had thought that extra sense would be lost when he stopped taking lyrium, but it was still there, if not quite as strong as before.

The sentry stiffened almost instantly. His eyes fixed on their hidden location and he nocked an arrow, drawing level with his cheek in the blink of an eye. Before he could release, his arms snapped to his side as bands of force coalesced around him, pinning him in place. There was a soft bark of surprise as his bow fell from stiff hands to rest in a drift of snow at his feet. Cullen released the tense breath he had been holding and uncurled his fingers from the hilt of his sword. Simply and smoothly executed.

Auber shot a quick glance over to Cullen, barely giving any hint of the strain he had to feel at casting and holding the spell at range. “All yours, Commander.”

Cullen rose from his crouch and stalked over to the restrained sentry, backup in tow. He winced slightly as lyrium’s melody rose in the air, a pale ghost tugging at the empty voids left behind in him. The templar was doing his best to silence them. He gestured for Auber to wait just inside the clearing, in clear sight but too far for the templar to call a smite. Hopefully. Every templar had a different level of skill.

The sentry’s eyes widened in shock as h spotted Cullen approach. The background hum of lyrium flared up higher and then died out entirely. The muscles in his neck strained as he struggled to glance between the bright gleam of templar steel and the distant figure of the mage who held him trapped. “You? I don’t understand,” he choked out.

Cullen smirked. “You seem to be even more lost than last time we met, Knight-Corporal.”

The sentry glared at him, looking far less confident than when they had met on the road little more than a week ago. It was oddly reassuring to see the familiar face. A part of him had worried that there might be more than one group roaming the pathways to the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

The templar’s eyes flickered away from Cullen to the templars behind him before coming to rest on Auber again. He seemed unable to settle on a look of confusion or cold anger. “Maker take you, stranger. You lied. You aren’t really Knight-Commander Cullen, are you?”

“I didn’t lie,” Cullen corrected him with a shrug. “I simply returned to Ferelden for a different reason than you expected.”

The sentry opened his mouth to call out an alarm. His eyes bulged in horror as nothing but a faint squeak came out. Cullen swallowed back a sudden hint of bile and tossed a curt nod of thanks over his shoulder to Auber. Despite knowing this man could cripple their chance at reaching the camp peacefully, he felt sick to his stomach at the sight of a templar — anyone — trapped and made helpless by magic.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and turned away slightly. “Bind and gag him,” he snapped to the templar beside him. “Quickly.”

The man started and rushed to comply, confused by Cullen’s sudden irritation. Cullen exhaled out his tension in a long breath. _Don_ _’t be a fool. This is hardly the same,_ he reminded himself angrily.

“Release him, Auber,” Cullen ordered the moment the sentry was securely bound, voice edging towards a hoarse growl.

The spell dropped so quickly it was a surprise Auber didn’t give himself whiplash. Cullen cursed himself internally. Auber was an ally, not a raging maleficar or even an rebellious Circle mage. But he had been Meredith’s right hand for seven years. That legacy was a hard one to forget for both of them.

There was one small reassurance that his effort to change wasn’t a complete waste of time. Once, he wouldn’t have asked, he simply would have silence the mage.

Cullen shook himself slightly. He had worn the cloak of Knight-Captain for so long, it was hard to leave it behind sometimes. They were serving a far more worthy cause now.

If anything, the templar sentry looked more confused as the remainder of Cullen’s men entered the clearing in organised lines. He stopped trying to choke out protests from behind his gag as he watched them marshal behind Cullen. An apostate and a few rogue templars was odd but not entirely unheard of in recent months. What looked like an organised military force was something far different.

Cullen crouched by the sentry to check the knots himself. “I can guess why you were sent here,” he told the man quietly. “But I came to Ferelden to serve the cause of peace, not wage my own personal war.” The sentry watched him with wary eyes as Cullen snapped to his feet. “Ser Giraud, Shailynn. Keep him out of the way,” he ordered over his shoulder as he began to move moved forwards.

“Maker willing, his commanding officer is willing to cooperate,” he murmured to himself as they re-entered the treeline. He rolled his shoulders to check that his shield was comfortably settled and loosened his sword in its sheath. Maker knew there was enough blood on his hands. He didn’t particularly want to kill people who had once been his brothers and sisters. Most of them would have had no choice but to follow orders, regardless of what they thought. There was hardly anything else they could have done without a sure supply of lyrium. Some might not even have any idea what the war was truly about. But if they meant to interfere with the smooth running of the conclave and refused to leave, there would be no other option.

There was no need for stealth now. It wasn’t far to their camp. They marched the rest of the way until they broke out into a wider clearing filled with tents laid out in perfect military lines. Cullen raised a hand. The force behind him drew to a halt. He felt twin sparks of magic as brilliant flares were launched into the sky. They lit the camp in a brief flash of blue the cast dancing sharp edged shadows before fading away. It was the signal that Karellian and Fabian had been waiting for. Off to either side of the camp, they emerged from the trees with their own squads. Shouts of alarm broke out as they were spotted. There was a flurry of activity as sword were drawn and shields were raised.

Cullen settled a hand on the hilt of his own sword and waited, hand raised to hold off the men behind him. He didn’t want to be the aggressor here unless it became necessary.

A woman in Knight-Captain’s armour dashed out of a tent at the far end of the camp, sword already in hand. The brief moment before she pulled her helm over her head was enough to judge that she closer to Karellian’s age than Cullen’s, although that was no surprise. Promotions to command rank were almost exclusively given to those who had served long enough to prove their competency.

She surveyed the scene in quick darting looks, taking in Cullen ahead of her and the squads cutting them off to leave only one avenue for retreat. More than enough to match her force, and far fresher than people who had been camping in the wilds for Maker knew how long. But importantly, none of the men under Cullen’s command had drawn their weapons yet.

“Hold!” she called out. “Form on me.”

Cullen cast a practised eye over the opposing force as they mustered behind their commanding officer. They did their best to cover the open angles of attack, but it would be obvious they were outnumbered. At first glance, they seemed to be uniformly focused and disciplined, but they had carefully placed themselves to give that impression. The steadiest templars stood at the front, but behind them were the glazed expressions and unsteady hands of templars facing the first stages of withdrawal. His initial guess had been correct.

He held up a hand, palm out. “I just want to talk, Knight-Captain.”

He wondered briefly what kind of leader this Knight-Captain was. Did she restrict her ration along with the rest of her men, enduring withdrawal? There was plenty to be said for that gesture of solidarity, but it would cloud a templar’s thinking and would impair their ability to make appropriate command decisions. A full ration was essential if clear thinking and strategic judgement was necessary. A prudent commanding officer in potential enemy territory might take a full dose by necessity, even with strict rationing in place. Or perhaps she might claim a full ration as her right. The first option was one with which Cullen could sympathise. The second was arguably the correct one in this situation and was a doubt that had kept him awake more than once. The last was one that he could never respect.

She studied him for a moment before shoving her sword back into its sheath and removing her helm to look him in the eye. “You have me surrounded and outnumbered,” she snapped. “I don’t think I have much choice. So talk.”

Whatever her motivations, the Knight-Captain looked drawn and tired, her face pale beyond what might be explained by the winter cold. The first option, then. A promising start that might mean she would be open to a peaceful resolution. Or an easier enemy to fight.

He curled icy fingers around the pommel of his sword and stalked forwards to meet her in the middle ground between their forces. By unspoken agreement, they stopped with a generous space between them, just greater than sword range. The Knight-Captain’s gaze skimmed over the men behind Cullen before returning to him and taking in the details of his attire. There was nothing there to suggest his allegiance, but she noted his Templar weapon with enough blankness to suggest that the scout he had encountered on the road had provided a detailed report.

Cullen gave a minute bow in greeting. “I am Commander Cullen, serving as leader of Divine Justinia’s peacekeeping force.”

One eyebrow rose. Cullen restrained a smile. She was doing a far better job of hiding her confusion than the sentry had done, but he could read that non-expression well enough from personal experience. She had definitely received a report and was now struggling to fit this new development into what she thought she knew.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Commander Cullen,” she replied with exaggerated politeness. There was just enough emphasis on the title to confirm that she had made the connection. “Knight-Captain Briony. Formerly of Denerim.” Her eyes flicked over his shoulder and back again. Her expression remained tense and wary as her eyes narrowed on him. His hand twitched around his sword hilt as he felt the low hum of a silence weave its way through the air. Cullen grit his teeth. It was hardly a surprise that she didn’t trust him, but he would rather avoid hearing the ghost of the lyrium song so often in one day if it could be helped. “You have quite a few men with you. Mages too. Might I ask why?”

Cullen gestured with his free hand for the men behind him to hold. The other remained prudently close to the hilt of his sword. “I could ask the same of you, Knight-Captain Briony,” he replied curtly. He tempered the desire to draw on the familiar icy displeasure of a Knight-Commander. She wasn’t an enemy. Yet. And it wasn’t her fault the subtle hum of lyrium was an unwelcome itch on his mind. But Maker knew diplomacy had never been his strong point. “I imagine you’re quite aware that the Divine has called for a conclave to take place at the nearby Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“Every major Templar Order force in Thedas should know by now,” she replied with a low humourless laugh.

“Then you’ll forgive me if I request you state your intentions.”

“I wasn’t aware we needed the Divine’s permission to camp in the Frostbacks. This is not Chantry property, and the Order no longer answers to them.”

Her answer seemed weary rather than angry, but Cullen remained cautious. Templars followed orders, even if they didn’t like them.

“It is not,” he confirmed curtly. “But having been charged with ensuring the conclave is secure, you can understand my concern at the presence of a military force. If you are not intending to attend, I must ask you to leave.”

“I’m afraid I’m under orders,” she replied with an apathetic shrug.

His answering smile was unamused. “The Divine will welcome any who are here to attend the conclave, but if your orders are to interfere, you will find it to be a less than friendly welcome.”

She pursed her lips in thought, eyes narrowed on Cullen. “Honest truth, Commander?” she said finally. “My orders were to intercept apostates.” She shook her head, lip curling with disgust. “Kill. Not capture. I would rather we had joined the Lord Seeker when he called for us.”

Cullen thought back to the alternately zealous and vitriolic missives that the Lord Seeker had sent out to every Knight-Commander in Thedas. It turned out the Seekers of Truth were just as flawed as the rest of them.

“You may find it to be no improvement,” he told her wearily. “But that is your right.”

She bristled. “The Lord Seeker has ultimate authority over the Templar Order,” she snapped. “I have as little right to question him as I do the Maker himself.”

“The Lord Seeker is a man,” Cullen countered, “and he is fallible, just like the rest of us. What do _you_ want, Knight-Captain Briony?”

“What I want is irrelevant.” She shrugged and brushed at her maroon skirts as if doubts and concerns could be removed as easily as the stray snowflakes clinging to the folds. “But I want to get out of these Maker-forsaken mountains. I want normality. Unfortunately, the Maker has other plans.”

Cullen found himself oddly sympathetic. He had been much the same kind of templar right up until the Gallows had collapsed. Trust your commanding officer. Refuse to acknowledge any doubts in the orders you had been given. Respect the chain of the command. Maker willing she would be able to recognise the risks in that attitude before it ended in as much disaster as his own service.

“There is a point where even the most loyal templar needs to question whether what they are being asked to do truly _is_ the Maker’s plan.” Cullen extended a hand in the direction of the mountain paths. If she was as unwilling to start a fight as he was, he needed to give her every opportunity to avoid conflict. He pitched his voice so that every templar behind her would hear what he had to say. “If you are willing to leave peacefully, you will not be stopped. I don’t want to fight you, but I will take any measures necessary to ensure the security of the Divine’s conclave. Reporting failure to your Knight-Commander will be far less bloody than staying here.”

She gave a grudging nod. If she was even remotely competent as a commanding officer, she had to recognise that her losses could be catastrophic if she chose to make a stand.

“I sense that there’s a but somewhere in there,” she replied sardonically, clearly unwilling to give in so easily. “You’d like us to leave behind our weapons and lyrium supply? Swear to submit to the Chantry’s authority again?”

Cullen chuckled dryly. “Hardly. None of us have sworn loyalty to the Chantry, only to the Divine’s peace. I have a proposal for you. Clearly you’re unhappy with the orders you’ve been given. The Divine needs allies who want peace as much as she does. With us, you have a chance to recover something of what the Order once was.” He inclined his head in the direction of his force arrayed around the camp. Templar armour gleamed a glaring white, reflecting the crisp snow. “You wouldn’t be the first templar who chose to help.”

Her combative glare returned as Cullen made his offer. “You’re asking me to abandon my sacred duty. Not all of us have that luxury of choice. We serve those who command us, whoever that might be.” She folded her arms and pointedly looked him up and down. Wary deference and bitter ire fought for dominance in her expression. “Knight-Commander.”

“That is no longer my title. I have left the Order,” he replied curtly, fingers aching as he squeezed the hilt of his sword. It took an effort to rein back his irritation to a point that would avoid antagonising her further. That unasked for title would be a weight on his shoulders for the rest of his life. “And if you believe nothing else I have said, Knight-Captain, believe this: the Order will tell you that you are an unfeeling merciful blade, but there is _nothing_ sacred in executing innocents.”

“I suppose you would know,” she replied. Perhaps it only sounded like spite in his mind. She shook her head and her pensive expression was replaced with resignation. “I will fulfil my duty, as unpleasant as it may be.”

That was a sentiment that Cullen recognised. He could see shades of his own former resigned acceptance of the hand the Maker had dealt him. He thought back to Cassandra’s offer to him in Kirkwall only a few months ago. After a life of duty and sacrifice, simply being offered a chance to choose was an unimaginable luxury. Most of them joined the Order before they were old enough to realise what they would have to forfeit. Every templar deserved the same opportunity of freedom of choice.

“Even lyrium cannot make you a slave,” he told her quietly. “What you are being ordered to do is not a templar’s duty, no matter how loudly your Knight-Commander might insist it is. I make no demands for you to join us, but you do have a choice, Knight-Captain. Don’t waste the opportunity.”

She barked out a short laugh of genuine delight, drawing a rustle of confused movement from the men waiting behind her. “You’re not what I expected, former Knight-Commander of the Gallows. I’ll admit, given your Circle’s reputation, I was surprised to hear you say you served the Divine’s peace now. Perhaps it’s not so strange after all.”

“I’ve made my share of mistakes,” he replied with a tight shrug. “I don’t believe this was one of them. The Order became something it should never have been.”

“The Templar Order is who I am. I can’t toss that aside.”

“I thought the same once. But can you truly say that the Order bears much resemblance to the vows we swore?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” she retorted. “I swore those vows in front of the Maker and his Bride, just as you did. Vows mean nothing if we could break them whenever we felt like it.”

Cullen felt a stab of pain in his chest. For all that she seemed to be arguing with her own conscience rather than him, her comment resurrected his own guilt at forsaking his vow of service to the Order. It didn’t matter that it had been a part of his resignation, approved by the Divine herself. Templars swore to serve for life. It wasn’t an easy vow to break, even with the Divine's consent to ease the burning feeling of having failed in his obligations.

“You would not be required to break any of your vows. All I ask is that you remember what the Order should be.”

“Blessed are the peacekeepers?” she quoted at him with an empty smile. “The Divine was rather unsubtle by calling you a peacekeeping force.” She turned briefly to study the own tiny force of templars under her command. The white plume of her exhalation was a brief cloud of mist to join what was slowly being burnt away by the sun. “Let me speak with my subordinates,” she requested, suddenly uncertain. “This is not an easy thing you’re asking of us.”

“This isn’t a decision I would expect any templar to take lightly. Take your time.”

She paced back to the templars waiting behind her. A Knight-Lieutenant detached himself and joined her off to one side. After a moment, the Knights-Corporal joined them too. Fingers were pointed at Cullen and away towards the lowlands. Arms were folded and heads were shaken. It was impossible to judge what direction the discussion was heading, but the fact that there was any discussion at all was a minor victory. The rest of the renegades stared fixedly ahead, as much as they must want to observe the argument between their superiors.

Cullen exchanged significant glances with Karellian and Fabian where they waited in readiness on either side. He was optimistic, but it paid to be cautious. None of them would relax their guard yet.

The quiet conversation broke up and the Knight-Captain strode back to the middle ground between their forces. Her expression was resolute now. Cullen tensed in anticipation. A decision had been made.

“You make a good case,” she said neutrally.

Cullen nodded once. “And your decision?”

In answer, she placed a hand over her heart and bowed in a deeply formal salute. A Knight-Templar bowing to the Divine herself could hardly have been more deferential. The background hum of the silence faded away to nothing, taking away the pressure of the unwelcome itch against Cullen’s mind.

“I am at the Divine’s service, Commander Cullen. Perhaps the Maker won’t take too much offence if we choose to pursue peace instead of hunting apostates.”

Cullen released a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding and closed the distance between them. She accepted his extended hand with a brief smile. Around them, the tense readiness of both sides settled to something marginally more relaxed.

“Welcome to the Divine’s service, Knight-Captain Briony,” he replied with a return smile.

“It can’t be any worse than camping in the mountains and sharpening our blades,” she said with something approaching the dry amusement of a long-serving templar.

“I can’t promise any action.” He winced as a parade of potential disasters played through his mind. A plague of abominations. A rash of lyrium-starved templars rampaging through the camp. Renegade maleficarum interfering with the conclave. Pitched battles between mages and templars. Having more forces on hand would certainly be reassuring. “Maker willing, the most excitement we’ll see is the signing of a peace accord.”

She nodded her rueful agreement. “I’ve never served in a Circle, but we templars certainly know how to watch patiently. I have no issue with boredom.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He nodded towards her camp. “Break camp, Knight-Captain. You’ll understand if we escort you to Haven.”

“That I do, Commander,” she replied with a precise salute.

She turned on a heel and began shouting orders. The organised ranks broke up into a renewed flurry of activity. For all that they had to be curious about what was happening, her men obeyed quickly. Tents were broken down, supplies were stored and equipment was packed with admirable speed. Cullen allowed himself to relax by the barest fraction. He could only pray peace was as easy to broker between Mages and Templars as it was between a disillusioned former Knight-Commander and a half-renegade Knight-Captain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Theoretically, I mean to alternate between my WIPs with one chapter upload per week. In practice, that's not working out too well. Apologies for the long gaps in this one.


	9. Words Unsaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen has a necessary conversation.

Haven

7 Whitemarch 9:41 Dragon  


It was pitch black by the time Cullen finally made his way back to his tent that night. At this point, it was hard to say whether he was closer to sunset or dawn. The lonely circle of light cast by a single torch was all that was left to illuminate the new tents that had sprouted up outside Haven, solid black shapes against the pure white of fresh snowfall.

The new arrivals had needed to be settled somewhere they could be watched until Leliana vetted them. Unfortunately for them, and fortunately for him, that put them in a cluster near his own tent, right where he could keep an eye on them. Leliana had her way of ensuring they weren't a security risk, he had his own. In a vast fortress like the Gallows, it had been far too easy for misdeeds to go unnoticed, for years in some cases. But they wouldn't be able to hide much right under his nose.

Somewhere out in there in the shadowy row of tents, he could hear a quiet but firm voice reciting the Chant of Light. The Canticle of Trials. It was a prayer with which he was intimately familiar. The Prayer for the Despairing was a heartfelt plea for salvation or a prayer for guidance. It could also be an affirmation of faith. He wondered what this particular templar was hoping to find in his hushed prayers.

The voice dropped off as Cullen crunched through the snow carpeting the ground, but by the time he had shivered his way into his camp bed, it had picked up where it had left off.

It had been another long day. Now that the pathway up to Haven was no longer in danger of attack by a hostile force, he had needed to begin assigning patrols to cover the route to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The conclave was a few weeks away. Their mercenary support would arrive soon, along with the first delegates. The Divine herself would arrive a few days before the conclave. The paths needed to be secure, and they needed to be able to guide travellers up to the remote region. A list of tasks and needs flickered through his mind as he stared up at the canvas roof of his tent. Countless things to be done in a period of time that was barely long enough. It almost kept him too busy to think of anything but his tasks. Exactly the way he liked it.

At some point his mind reluctantly surrendered to the unwelcome embrace of sleep, but the restful sound of the nameless templar reciting the Chant was a gentle backdrop. He had returned to the beginning at some point, his words a quiet counterpoint to the whisper of wind from the peaks, muted by the perfect blanket of snow.

“In the long hours of the night, when hope has abandoned me.”

“ _You can’t shut your eyes forever.” The silken voice coiled through the whispered echoes of his prayers. “You’ll sing for me eventually, sweet templar.”_

“ _I will see the stars and know_ _—_ _”_

_The familiar face of Apprentice Surana, newly harrowed mage of the Circle Tower, wasn't the only one that the demon used, but she certainly turned up the most often. In his thoughts, it was always Apprentice Surana. Mage Surana had been her title for far too short a time for it to have gained much of a hold. Never her given name, although he knew that too. It didn't mean much, but that tiny bit of separation was his only tenuous reassurance that he hadn’t fallen. Yet. It would happen eventually. Perhaps Andraste herself could have endured this eternity of torment, but he was only a failed Knight-Templar. A better templar might have managed to free themselves from this prison, or they might never have allowed themselves to be trapped in the first place. A better templar might have managed to save those who had died instead of watching helplessly._

_She came to him time and again._ It _came to him time and again._ It _. The demon. Not Apprentice Surana. She had left with the Grey Warden. She was long dead at Ostagar. She wasn't here in the tower. She wasn’t smiling at him in the library. She wasn’t crouching in front of his prison and offering him a vial of the captivating, achingly pure blue for which his body was so desperate._

_She wasn't any more real than any of the other countless visions that had been forced on his mind in the endless days or weeks or months he had been trapped in the tower. It was just the demon. Always the demon. In his dreams when he couldn't resist sleep any more. Whispering in his ear when he was awake. Offering him vision after vision. Time and again. Sometimes it waited what felt like days, sometimes only minutes. But he could never rest. It was always here. Always—_

The Frostbacks stretched out bright and sharp in every direction. A crisp breeze ruffled his hair and whipped at his cloak. He shuddered suddenly and whipped his head around, looking for danger with wide eyes. His racing heart gradually slowed. There was no one but Surana, relishing the brilliant sunshine and blessedly pure air as much as he was, her cool hand in his. 

Why then, was he so sure there was something wrong? 

The snow crunched under his boots as he took a step closer and claimed her other hand. The peace was perfect. Infinitely better than...

Her head suddenly whipped around. An angry glare twisted her delicate features as they morphed into the cold beauty of his tormentor. The vision shattered, snatching away the promise of peace. 

_With nauseating abruptness, he was thrown back into reality. His dank and putrid prison, backdropped with the sound of screams and lit with the constant lurid glow of the magical barrier that kept him trapped. Sleep, or at least unconsciousness, had claimed him. Demons had far more power over dreams, but the constant fight against bone-deep weariness was a losing one. He could barely muster up the energy to be grateful that the dream had broken. There was peace there, but it wasn_ ' _t his. Better to simply gain what pleasure he could out of a moment of respite from the demon before it returned._

“ _Andraste give me the strength to endure,” he whispered over his folded hands. He wasn't entirely sure he meant the prayer any more._

_He broke off from the chant and cocked his head with the ragged remains of curiosity. The constant background noise from outside the antechamber had shifted slightly. It almost sounded like a battle. Maybe the demons and abominations were bored._

_His heart fractured a little more as the antechamber door creaked open. It seemed that the brief relief had been just another of the demon's cruel tricks. Sudden anger filled him. From some untapped reserve he found the strength to jump up and shout at the familiar figure that had stepped into the antechamber, staff in hand._

_"This trick again?” he accused the apparition, “I know what you are. I will stay strong.”_

_An unexpected look of shock crossed horrifically familiar features that had tortured him for days or weeks or months and_ _… a Circle Enchanter? And two unfamiliar armed and armoured companions? With a sinking stomach he realised that the demon must have reached even further into his mind. He was being offered a rescue like the reverse of some tale of a knight in shining armour. A pitiful new desire that was growing to replace older, more shameful ones. Surana was dead. Everyone was dead. There was no rescue. But he didn't even know which was worse any more; to deny desire yet again and be left with nothing but abominations and rotting corpses and the promise of more torment, or to finally submit to the demon._

_But it wasn't the familiar face who spoke first, it was another. A woman with flame-bright hair and blue eyes that might have sparkled once, but were distant now._

“ _A templar,” she stated, taking in his filthy robes and tarnished armour with one blandly curious glance. She could have been relaxing in the barracks common room instead of standing in the middle of all the filth and death._

_Apprentice- no, Warden Surana nodded. “I knew him, once. He is a different man now.” She picked at a splinter on the worn grip of her staff, barely even bothering to do more than glance at him. “The tower is lost. We had better leave. He won’t be any use to us.”_

_The woman nodded gravely._ _“Perhaps that would be best.”_

_The tenuous thread of anger giving him strength shattered. He was suddenly utterly certain that this was no trick from the demon. This was real, but they were going to leave him._

“ _Maker have mercy,” he begged, pushing himself as close as he could bear to the smooth surface of his magical prison. “You can’t leave me here.”_

“ _You have to kill them all!” the flame-haired woman told him with a sneer._

 _Cullen started at hearing his own voice come from her._ _“No, I didn't—”_

_Warden Surana shook her head in disgust. She turned on a heel and swept out of the antechamber without a backward glance, her companions following silently behind. The woman stayed a moment longer, watching with naked disgust._

“ _You didn't mean it?” she mocked him. She took a small step to one side. Cullen felt a sick rush of dread as the sleek form of Desire revealed itself from behind her. A possessive smile wreathed the demon’s coldly beautiful face. The woman exchanged a nod with it. “The Maker values truth. The demon has corrupted you beyond redemption.”_

“ _No. No. Please,” he begged her, voice cracking as he fell to one knee. “Don’t leave.”_

“ _Well? Did you or did you not say it?”_

“ _I did,” he whispered. He meant it with every fibre of his being. Or at least, he had? Was that right? “But—”_

“ _Then it is far safer for you to stay here,” she replied, cutting off his plea before he could form one._

_She turned for the doorway too. A ragged sob broke free of his control. He meant every word. They were dangerous. They had killed countless others and would kill countless more if they couldn't be stopped._

_Or was_ he _the dangerous one too? How many had died because of him, by his hand or through his inaction?_

 _She hesitated with one hand on the door handle and turned a glance on his hunched form._ _“Maker have Mercy on you,” she said, a pitying smile briefly softening her face._

_She tossed a dagger on the floor as she left. It skittered across the filthy flagstones until it came to a halt against his prison. Even knowing what would happen, he scrambled forwards, a hand shooting out to grab the weapon. It collided with the buzzing surface of his prison hard enough to break bone._

_He choked out another sob and rested his forehead on it. The barrier’s vibration rattled through him, but he refused to move._

“ _Mercy,” he whispered, pleading with the lifeless air as the antechamber door drew shut again. Trapped for an eternity in here with nothing but death. And the demon._

_Desire laughed delightedly at his bleak prayer. A sleek leg drew into view, foot coming to rest next to the small blade. He kept his eyes desperately focused on the weapon as the demon stepped through the barrier and knelt down. Cool fingers grabbed his chin and tilted his head up until he met the unnatural lambent eyes of the demon. It caressed the line of his jaw. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could still see the pristine splinter of steel, completely untouched by the foulness of his prison. The dagger was close enough to touch. It might as well have sat in the heart of the Black City for all the good it did._

_The demon’s face shivered from the cold beauty of Desire to the familiar features that it used to torment him. “You weren’t thinking of leaving me were you, my sweet templar? Don't listen to their lies. I can help, if you would only let me.”_

Cullen bit back a curse as he fought his way awake. He ran a hand through sweat-soaked hair. He might not especially look forward to sleeping, but it would be nice to manage a night of unbroken rest once in a while.

Cassandra assured him it was simply a side effect of withdrawal, but she didn’t know his mind. Nightmares had been a problem long before he had stopped taking lyrium. For a while, a single dose had been enough to keep them muted. By the time he had left Kirkwall, it had taken a double or triple dose.

He clenched a hand that had begun to tremble slightly and refocused his thoughts before they inevitably drifted back to thoughts of lyrium’s cold fire. It didn’t — couldn’t — have a hold over him any more.

It didn’t take much to guess why this particular nightmare had ruined his sleep tonight. As reluctant as he was to speak with Leliana about Kinloch Hold, he knew it had to be addressed sooner rather than later. Their meeting today to discuss his recruitment of Knight-Captain Briony and her templars had passed the same way as every other meeting. Formal. Polite. Distant. It wasn’t a working relationship, it was an elaborate dance to avoid anything but the bare minimum of interaction.

He could guess why she barely spoke to him outside of what was necessary. Every time he saw her, he was reminded of Kinloch Hold. Not the horror and the pain of his imprisonment, although there were enough of those memories to plague his sleep for a lifetime. No, when he saw her, he remembered the venomous hate he had felt for anyone who hadn’t faced what he had in Ferelden’s Circle. For anyone who couldn’t see as he saw. For every mage, purely because of the danger they might pose. She was a reminder of when he had been at his weakest, and she knew it.

Perhaps she didn’t care enough to face the issue. After all, his failures were hardly her problem. Or she might simply be waiting for the right moment. But he couldn’t wait any longer. Kinloch Hold’s legacy couldn’t be left hanging over either of their heads. _I have enough unfinished business without this too,_ he thought wearily.

There was no point trying to get more rest now that he had made up his mind. But it would have to wait until dawn. Waking Leliana from her sleep just to get a weight off his chest would hardly go down well. No one sane was awake at this time of night. And there was no work he could do until daylight. Not unless he wanted to break his neck climbing up the slopes to the Temple of Sacred Ashes at night.

“To the chantry, then,” he muttered to himself as he broke the thin skin of ice on a bucket of water to wash his face and worked his way back into frosty armour. It wouldn’t exactly be the first time he had passed a sleepless night in a chantry. And considering Leliana shared quarters there with Josephine and Cassandra, it was a good way to make sure he stood by the decision.

He peered up at the stars as he left his tent. It was perhaps an hour since he had lain down to rest. The nameless templar in the camp had long since fallen silent. Cullen winced. Maker willing that wasn’t because he had been shocked into silence by the sound of his new commanding officer shouting out in his sleep. His throat wasn’t raw, which suggested it had been a quiet night. Then again, apparently he had talked in his sleep even before Kinloch Hold. It hadn’t made him especially popular in the recruit barracks.

The templar sentry stationed at Haven’s gate dropped a hand that had been muffling a yawn and offered Cullen a salute. The rap of steel gauntlets was incongruous against the peaceful darkness. At least he didn’t get any pooly-concealed looks of curiosity for the late hour. Tonight’s sentry was a templar out of Kirkwall.

He accepted the salute with a cursory nod and slipped through the palisade gate. There was no danger of attack to really warrant him posting sentries across the valley, but caution was a habit born of years in command. If the sentry had just so happened to be a veteran Circle templar every time, well, a little prudent paranoia was inevitable from a man with his background.

It was utterly quiet past the gates too, doors and shutters sealed tight against the night’s chill. Only a few of Haven’s residents actually lived within the palisade, and those that did live here followed rural waking hours. Rising with the dawn and retiring with the first stars was a long distant memory for him.

He slowed as he caught sight of a light flickering ahead of him. There was a small fire burning in the rudimentary shelter offered by the short stone wall past the village inn. Rylen sat leaning against the wall, a bottle in his lap. His breastplate was a gleaming sheet of curved metal at his feet, polishing cloth resting on top. Varric sat on an upturned log beside him, chuckling quietly at something Rylen had said.

“Curly!” Varric called out as he caught sight of Cullen. “Come to join us?”

Rylen offered a seated salute and held gloved hands out to the warmth of the fire. “Evening, Commander.”

Cullen shook his head incredulously. “What in Andraste’s name are the two of you doing awake? It’s well past midnight.”

“Pretty sure you shouldn’t be awake either.” Varric retorted. “Me and the Knight-Captain here are enjoying the very last of my Kirkwall ale, finest—” He glared at Rylen as the man’s muffled cough cut him off. “ _Finest_ the Hanged Man has to offer. Grumpy and the mini seeker dropped out at least an hour ago, and your newest recruit wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the idea.”

Cullen spent a moment fathoming the names before replying. “Ser Karellian and Captain Fabian? I’d appreciate it if you didn’t corrupt all my subordinates, Varric.”

Varric waved a dismissive hand. “They’ll be fine.”

Rylen nodded firmly. “Won't be a problem, Ser. I’m not sure about Fabian, but Karellian and I will be right as rain tomorrow.” He stopped awkwardly and threw a quick glance at Varric, shifting uncomfortably. “On that subject.” He blew out a long breath and eased himself to his feet, making an admirable effort towards appearing sober. “A word for a moment if I could, Commander,” he asked, suddenly formal.

“Of course, Knight-Captain,” Cullen replied with a note of caution. It didn’t take much effort to guess what Rylen wanted to discuss. They had barely had a chance to speak after yesterday’s argument. “Excuse us, Varric.”

They wandered a little way into the shadows of one of Haven’s small homes. Cullen turned to face Rylen and folded his arms. “We said all that was needed yesterday,” he said, pre-empting whatever Rylen had meant to say.

“Maybe, but an apology is still owed. I shouldn't have let my concerns as a friend get out of hand. And I definitely shouldn't have tried to force you to take any lyrium.” He sighed and flicked a quick glance up to the night sky. “Sweet Andraste, of all the ways to react. I should have known better.”

“Your concern was justifiable given the circumstances.” Cullen ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Maker knows my reaction would have been worse if someone under my command had made that decision whilst I was still serving in the Gallows.”

“But I'm not your superior, I'm your second-in-command. I cannae be ordering you around or questioning your decisions like that.” Rylen swayed slightly as he pulled himself to attention. “It won’t happen again, Commander.”

He appreciated the assertion. It was a necessary one, but it could be a dangerous one too. Templars were trained and expected to obey without question. How might things have been different if he had been more forceful with his doubts about Meredith?

“I am glad to hear it. But there is a reason I offered you the position rather than Ser Karellian or any other templar from the Gallows. I need someone I can trust to think, to question and to act as a check on my actions.” Cullen winced. It was a recipe for disaster if Rylen felt like taking that order too literally. “Within proper limits, of course,” he added. “This is still a military force with a military chain of command.”

Rylen smiled wryly. “Noted.” He hunched his shoulders and tucked his hands into his armpits for warmth. He cleared his throat awkwardly and blinked owlishly. "Maker. I regret drinking Varric's dishwater."

"You were in Kirkwall long enough. Surely you should have known better," Cullen replied with a smirk. He took sympathy on Rylen’s building shivers and strode back to the heat offered by the fire. Experience told him that Free Marches Templar robes offered nothing close to the warmth of Ferelden Templar robes. “How did Knight-Captain Briony take her introduction to Haven?”

Rylen eased up to the fire with a quiet sigh of relief. He waved away the bottle proffered by Varric. “About as you might expect. Had the shock of her life when she saw one of those Tranquil you've got helping out around here.” He frowned and turned a look of nauseous distaste on the bottle in Varric’s hand. “Can’t remember her name now. Polite.”

“All Tranquil are polite, Rylen,” Cullen noted dryly.

Varric chuckled. “Even I know that.”

Thank the Maker he knew the forgetfulness was an effect of too much to drink. On a templar he knew less well, paranoia would have had him questioning how well the other man was coping with his lyrium use.

Rylen gave Cullen and Varric a matched pair of baleful looks. “Why thank you, Commander. I would never have noticed, what with never having dealt with mages before.” Rylen gestured limply as if trying to pull the name out of the air. “Elf. Long hair.”

Cullen sobered. “Anural? She was an Enchanter. A spirit mage.”

Rylen winced, perhaps recognising that he had drifted close to a sensitive subject. “Right. Well, Ser Briony isn’t Circle, and it shows. She’s never had to deal with a Tranquil mage, or any Circle mage at all for that matter. You know how non-Circle templars can be.”

Cullen nodded curtly. In a city state like Kirkwall or Stakhaven, the local garrison of the Templar Order had been co-located with a Circle. Templars in the city had been in constant close proximity with mages as a result. A whole country — even one as relatively small as Ferelden — was different. Circle templars might never leave the confines of their Circle, as Cullen had expected from his own assignment to Kinloch Hold. The rest were scattered in chantries and garrisons across the country. Those who had never served in Circles encountered magic in one of three ways. Mages newly awoken to their powers, occasionally dangerously unstable, and almost always reluctant to be parted from their families, even if the parents might occasionally be glad of it. Apostates hiding from the Order. Or dangerous maleficarum and abominations. With a record like that, it was little wonder that non-Circle templars had pushed for the harshest measures. Granted, that attitude could be found on Circle templars too. A younger Cullen would have been at the head of that movement. Abominations and demons had a way of changing one's perspective on magic. 

“But she’ll manage,” Rylen continued. “She seems to be a good Knight-Captain. Cares about the men under her command. Wants to do the right thing.” He grimaced. “More than I can say for a certain former commanding officer of mine.”

Cullen considered his limited interactions with Knight-Commander Carsten, former commanding officer in Starkhaven. The first had been when he had escorted mages to be re-homed in Kirkwall after Starkhaven’s Circle had burned down. Then, seven years later, he had returned the favour by sending Rylen and a generous number of reinforcements to support Kirkwall after the chantry explosion. At the time, Carsten had seemed a reasonable man and the only one to offer more than empty platitudes to Kirkwall. But he had chosen to wage war on former Circle mages. His polite offer to join forces with Cullen in marching to Val Royeaux to follow the Lord Seeker’s call had been a jarring contrast to the vitriol he had directed against the mages. The schisms that had led to Rylen refusing to follow his Knight-Commander’s orders had been a reflection of events happening in near every major Templar force across Thedas.

“We can only hope that the Knights-Commander attending the conclave are more open to a peaceful resolution than Knight-Commander Carsten was,” he sighed.

Internally, he was less confident that it would be the case. There were moderates in the Order who might be willing to negotiate peace, but others like Carsten could ruin any such attempt. There were too many years of history to be overcome. The Divine had faith that her conclave would work. His own measure of success would be if he managed to make sure the delegates didn't kill each other.

Rylen raised an eyebrow, clearly as dubious as Cullen felt. “You could have been there to say your piece. The Gallows has plenty of lessons to teach the rest of them.”

Cullen shook his head. “My time in the Order is over. It has taken all it can from me. Regardless, you have as much right to speak there as I do. I imagine more than just Knights-Commander will be there to represent the Order’s interests.”

Rylen snorted. “Starkhaven’s Circle is almost ten years gone. Anyway, not all of us are cut out to take on those kinds of responsibilities. I'm happy where I am thank you very much. I’d rather be actually getting on with work than debating with puffed up Senior Enchanters and commanding officers.” He squinted at Cullen. “Present company excluded, Ser.”

“I was still a Knight-Captain when you arrived in Kirkwall,” Cullen pointed out. “I never actually wanted the promotion to Knight-Commander.”

“So you said at the time. But you were doing the work of one even before your promotion, and you wanted this position.”

“Well, yes,” Cullen replied, nonplussed. “I would hardly be here otherwise.”

Rylen leaned back and folded his arms, the hint of a smug smile tugging at the tattoos on his chin. “You’re happy to be in command, so long as it’s on your terms. You make command decisions even when not strictly required. Sounds like the attitude of a commanding officer to me.”

Varric raised his bottle. “You've got to admit that there’s a bit of a pattern there, Curly.”

“None of that is inaccurate,” he replied grudgingly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Maker’s breath. I have no idea why I'm having this conversation with a drunk man.”

“An excellent question,” Rylen sighed, swaying slightly on his feet. “Remind me never to drink with you again, Varric, unless you can dig up some decent Starkhaven whisky instead of the contents of some barrel at the bottom of Kirkwall’s bay.” He yawned widely enough that Cullen heard his jaw crack. “There’s a camp bed waiting for me. Permission to disappear, unless you need me for anything, Ser?”

Cullen chuckled and rolled his eyes. “Permission granted. I’d suggest that some rest before you lead dawn drills for the trainees tomorrow might be wise. As your commanding officer, I wouldn’t recommend being late.”

Rylen winced. “Right you are, Commander.”

“Hey, Starkhaven,” Varric called out as Rylen stood. He tapped the breastplate resting by the fire. “You might need this.”

Rylen cleared his throat. “Right. Probably.” He grabbed his breastplate and offered a wavering salute. “‘Night, Commander.” He wandered off into the darkness of Haven with an amused snort. “Knight-Commander. Ha.”

“Was it really necessary to get my second-in-command drunk?” Cullen sighed as he watched Rylen lurch into a short column with a muffled clank and right himself, patting the stones with a muttered apology.

“Necessary? No. Fun? Yes.” Varric set his bottle down and cradled his head. “But he can _really_ hold his drink. I’m impressed he managed to hold a sensible conversation for that long.”

Cullen shrugged. “I’ve been told it’s a skill learnt at birth in Starkhaven.” He paused, considering the number of reprimands for drunkenness he had handled in the Gallows. “And possibly a survival instinct in Kirkwall.”

Varric raised an eyebrow. “I could make an honorary Kirkwaller out of you yet, Curly.”

“Andraste give me strength. Thank you, but no.” He exhaled and looked up at Haven’s chantry. Warm torchlight at either side of the arched doorway made it an inviting beacon in the darkness of the silent village. “I will leave you to recover. Good night, Varric.”

“Wait,” Varric called out. He levered himself to his feet with a groan as Cullen drew to a halt. “I need something to drink that I won’t regret in the morning. You look like you could do with something too.”

Cullen hesitated and looked between the promised serenity of the chantry and the quiet inn. “I—”

“Come on, Curly. I know it’s probably against rules for a templar to relax, but it won’t kill you to take a break. I'm sure whatever you were planning to do can wait until morning.”

“Fine,” he sighed. The irritation was mostly feigned. He still wasn't quite sure why Varric was making such an effort to be a friend, but it probably was a good idea not to be alone with his thoughts all night. And he _was_ thirsty. But that was hardly new. He gestured in the direction of the inn. “I would have thought Lady Cassandra wouldn't let you out of her sight. She certainly didn't on the journey from Kirkwall.”

Varric barked out an amused laugh as he followed Cullen. “The Seeker can’t decide whether to watch me like a hawk or throw me off the top of the mountain.”

Cullen smirked. “I can sympathise.”

“I'm wounded, Curly. She finally gave up on trying to resist the temptation this evening. I’d say former templars make a pretty good substitute for watching a prisoner, seeing as guarding things is what you do in between smiting mages.”

“It’s probably not wise to irritate a Seeker,” he replied with a roll of his eyes at the vast generalisation. “Maker knows I must have infuriated her quite enough with my own decisions.”

“That’s the beauty of it. She wants me to speak to the Divine, so she can’t do anything to me.” He offered Cullen a toothy grin and spread his arms wide. “She can’t even lock me up. Besides, it’s not like I can go anywhere.”

Cullen gave a wry shake of his head and pushed open the door to Haven’s inn. It was nearly empty as he stepped in behind Varric. The inn’s owner — sitting in a half doze behind the bar — was dimly picked out by the banked coals smouldering in the fireplace. She blinked sleepily at him and made to stand as she heard the door creak shut. He waved her away. Templar training had left out plenty of arguably essential life skills, but he could probably manage to take a mug of hot water from the kettle over the fire without too much help.

Varric wound his way between empty tables and slouched in a chair as close to the fireplace as he could manage. He stretched his feet out towards the coals with a satisfied groan and closed his eyes. “Much better.”

“You could always try buttoning your coat,” Cullen commented.

Varric cracked an eye open. “And deny Thedas this view? Not a chance.”

Cullen breathed out a soft chuckle and strode over towards the blackened kettle resting over the fire. To Varric’s credit, he seemed to be coping reasonably well with the weather, despite his complete and utter refusal to dress appropriately.

The warmth leaking from the coals was just enough to take the edge of the cold that seemed that have engrained itself in the bones of his hand. Thick curls of scented steam wound around the side of the kettle as he eased the heavy lid off and ladled generous helpings into a pair of fresh mugs.

He inhaled sharply and blinked as a fragment of long lost memory eased its way into his mind. A mug of hot spiced tea, a rare treat on the long winter nights. An earthenware mug almost too big for the small hands that clutched it. The snug and noisy warmth of the Rutherford farmstead, rugged walls keeping the cold at bay.

He couldn't help but smile as the blurred memory solidified. Perhaps the haze shrouding his oldest memories wasn't quite as impenetrable as it had begun to seem. Fulfilling his lifelong dream to join the Order had made up for the loss of those small moments, at the time. To have a little reminder of a long-lost simpler life was ... nice. Perhaps not as powerful as more painful memories, but comforting simply for existing.

“I would not have thought so much entertainment could be found in a kettle.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen muttered, slopping a little water over his glove as he started back. _Is no one asleep in the place?_ he thought exasperatedly. “My apologies, Sister Nightingale, I didn't see you.”

“And I thought Templars were supposed to be observant,” she replied with a small laugh.

“We certainly should be,” he muttered as he set the mugs down on a table. He flicked a quick look over the corner she had chosen. Maker knew how he had missed her. “Why—,” he cleared his throat and started again. “What are you doing here at this time of night?”

“There are some things that are best done at night.” She cocked her head and looked around the empty common room. “And I like the peace.”

“I would have to agree,” he replied quietly.

There was a part of that habit that had been built by necessity and — admittedly — a touch of cowardice, but he mostly sympathised. An active Templar stronghold like the Gallows had never truly slept, but there was something to be said for being awake when others were asleep. Late nights had a certain soothing calm to them.

He surreptitiously shook the spilled liquid off his glove, hesitating as he attempted to form an appropriate plan of attack. Here was the perfect opportunity to broach the subject of Kinloch Hold, but the surprise had caught him on the back foot. In a combat situation, it would hardly have been an issue. But conversational skills had never been his strength. He found himself unsure what to say now that he was face to face with her.

His pause left an uncomfortable dead space in the air. Leliana looked ready to slip out with nothing more than a polite farewell, just as she did after every one of their encounters, formal or informal. Usually he would have been glad to be saved from the awkward silence. But cowardice was not an option.

“Sister Nightingale. Wait,” Cullen called out quietly. She turned back to him with a questioning look in her eyes and Cullen swallowed. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, internally cursing himself for that uncontrolled tic. “Ah. We must speak.”

A pair of piercing blue eyes studied Cullen from beneath the hood she never lowered. “There is nothing to speak about.”

“Please. If we are to continue working together, we must speak,” he repeated, wincing at the hesitancy in his voice. _Maker give me strength. Barely half an hour ago I was perfectly resolved to have this conversation._

He found himself missing lyrium’s cold clarity. Again. He rested a hand on the pommel of his sword and folded the other in a fist behind his back before the tremor became noticeable. He prayed she hadn’t noticed, although that seemed rather futile. Those eyes didn’t seem to miss much. Now was _really_ not the time for that particular symptom to rear its head.

“Fine.” She cast a glance over at the dozing woman by the bar. “But not here.”

“The chantry then.” Cullen exhaled, unsure whether it was relief or anxiety he was feeling. “Excuse us, Varric,” he called out. “There is some business I must address.”

Varric gave an easy shrug and cradled the mug that Cullen handed him. “I’ll be here when you get back, Curly.”

The cold outside was a welcome shock, chasing away the brief spell of uncertainty. Now was as good a time as any to handle this problem before it began to interfere with his work.

They paced through the quiet village streets and the high-ceilinged hall of Haven’s chantry in silence. Cullen couldn't say what dominated Leliana’s thoughts, but his own were focused on an endless series of moves and counters, as if the coming conversation were a military campaign. There were certainly similarities. Predicting an opponent’s moves was as important as planning your own, if not more so, but he wasn't sure that the Divine’s Left Hand would especially appreciate being compared to an invading force of Qunari. He just wished there were more scenarios that didn't end in a minor disaster.

He scrubbed wearily at his face as they entered their makeshift planning room. There was little chance of being able to predict how this conversation would progress. The outcome was in the Maker’s hands.

It was always quiet in this little room, without the constant clash of metal from the trainees outside the village or the chatter of Haven’s residents. Peaceful. Airless. Cramped. Cullen dismissed those last intruding thoughts away with a sharp exhalation and turned to face Leliana.

“I know you remember me,” he said flatly.

“I do.”

Her answer was coolly inscrutable. He couldn’t judge what hid behind her words. She could think he was a weak fool or a broken wreck. She might not care at all. The unreadable distance was a far cry from their first encounter. He could recall tiny fragments of her horrified sympathy, a brief moment of kindness he had shouted away. Kindness and comfort had been the realms of the demon. Maker knew that ten years could change someone, but she bore more resemblance to the distant reserve of a veteran templar than what little he could remember of her from Kinloch Hold.

“Perhaps you can ignore our past, but I cannot.” She watched him steadily as he began to pace the length of the long table dominating the room. “Maker knows what you must think of me. You would be within your rights to demand Cassandra find a replacement.”

She folded her arms, adding another degree of separation between them. “Is it necessary?”

“Perhaps,” he snapped, flicking a glance over his shoulder at her before resuming his restless pacing. _To ensure this horror is ended, you must kill everyone up there._ “I wanted every mage in that tower dead. I would have killed every last one of them with my bare hands. I barely deserved to be called a templar.”

“I will not condemn you for what you thought ten years ago.”

Cullen paused in his pacing and met her cool regard with a flat stare. “But you may condemn me for my thoughts now.”

She studied him through narrowed eyes. “That depends on what those thoughts are. Cassandra has faith in you, but I cannot afford trust. Do you still believe as you did then, former Knight-Commander of the Gallows?”

Oddly, Cullen found the direct question reassuring. “I believed it wholeheartedly for years,” he acknowledged evenly. “But no. Not any longer. That fear blinded me to things I should have seen far earlier.”

“An easy thing to say, but a hard thing to prove,” she retorted, all cool disdain. “Why should I believe your claim?”

Cullen folded his arms, mirroring her posture. “I don’t expect you to believe me. It is far too easy to say one thing and believe another.” Maker knew he had seen it more often then he would have liked. Templars who wielded their sworn service to a higher cause as an excuse for the abuses they had perpetrated. They ought to have been beyond reproach. The reality was far more flawed. “I can only pray my actions will speak for me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Like your actions in the Gallows, perhaps?”

He offered her a flat smile at the veiled accusation. “My inactions might be a more accurate description. I did all I could in Kirkwall after Knight-Commander Meredith’s death, but a debt of blood is still owed. I'm not naive enough to believe that I have or even can make up for my past, but I certainly intend to try.”

“Hmm.” She unfolded her arms and studied him, eyes darting from the lingering gauntness in his face to his vambraces, the sole marker of his former allegiance. He made no attempt to hide the plainly visible Sword of Mercy. He wasn’t ashamed of having once believed in the good the Order should have represented. Whatever she saw, it seemed to have satisfied some test. “Perhaps Cassandra was right to reassure me that you are a good man now.”

He barked out a humourless laugh in response to her comment. So Cassandra had insisted when she recruited him. He didn’t especially believe it, but at least someone believed he wasn’t an entirely lost cause. “Hardly. But I will do my best to earn that praise.”

“You are not to blame for emerging a changed man after Kinloch Hold,” she replied, expression lightening a touch from reserved distance to something closer empathy. Not pity, thank the maker for that. He didn’t need or want anyone’s pity.

“Kind of you to say, but I will not hide behind excuses,” he replied severely. “When the time comes, I will be answerable to the Maker.”

She leaned against the table and traced the rough edge with her fingertips, staring past Cullen somewhere into the middle distance. “So many died in Ferelden’s Circle. There was blood and bodies everywhere. Those who still lived were playthings for demons. What you endured, I cannot imagine.” She focused back on him. “There is no shame in surviving. The Maker has a plan for us all.”

He felt vaguely nauseous. Ten years gone and he could still remember the confusion at why he had been left alive when so many others had died. The bitter resentment. If there had been some grand plan behind the bloody carnage in Kinloch Hold, it wasn’t one he had managed to see yet. It took a great effort of faith to believe his survival was anything more than cruel chance. A joke, with him as the subject.

“I lived. Others died in my place. I’m certainly not proud of that,” he replied, biting out the words with razor-sharp precision. “But this conclave is an opportunity to atone for past failures. The Maker has seen fit to give me a second chance at redemption.”

“Then do not waste it, Commander,” Leliana replied as she straightened back up again. “I trust you to do your best to see that the conclave runs smoothly.”

“And if not?” he asked with a sharp smile. If they were being honest with each other, it was better to have the whole truth.

She returned his smile with one that was just as cutting. “Then I will take any measure necessary to ensure its success.”

He offered her a curt nod. Her meaning was perfectly clear. They had more in common than he had first thought. Any price to achieve a just goal. Those impossible choices could change someone just as much as a place like Kinloch Hold.

“Rest assured that I do not intend to undermine our chances of success, intentionally or otherwise. We have a chance for peace here. Maker knows there has been more than enough suffering this age. ”

“On that, we are in agreement.” She offered him a small smile. “Let us leave the Circle Tower in the past, where it belongs. I imagine we would both prefer to forget that place.”

“Quite.” If his response was a little shaky, he could hardly be to blame. _Maker._ _If only it were that easy._ “So long as it no longer interferes with our ability to work together.”

“It will not,” she confirmed. She paused, leaving a silence that wasn’t quite as uncomfortable as it would have been before. “I will wish you a good night now. There are still things that must be done before daylight.”

Cullen exhaled. This certainly could have been worse. His mind had offered far too many catastrophic scenarios. “Then I will keep you no longer. Good night.”

She hesitated with her hand on the door handle, expression softening a touch. For a moment, the view in front of him was replaced by a shard of his nightmare. The unattainable dream of Mercy. “Maker grant you peace, Ser Cullen Rutherford,” she said with all the dignified formality of a Chantry benediction.

Cullen blinked, dispelling the image. “And you, Sister Nightingale,” he replied with equal solemnity to her retreating back. It wouldn’t have counted for much, even as a Templar Knight-Commander, ordained in the Maker’s service. But perhaps she needed the blessing as much as he did.

 _Peace,_ he mused as the door closed quietly behind her. He studied the map of Ferelden and Orlais laid out on the table, eyes inevitably drawn to the the northern tip of Lake Calenhad as he straightened a disorganised stack of papers.

There was a growing, guilty part of himself that wasn’t sure it wanted the conclave to succeed. Or at least not entirely. Not that he planned on doing anything less than his utmost to ensure its success. Thedas needed peace. But he wasn’t entirely sure he would know what to do once that goal was achieved. The Order had given structure to his life. Something into which he could throw himself wholeheartedly. A way to forget everything, himself included. This task had given him the kind of purpose to match what he had once found in the Order, but true success would make this position redundant. He could lose the renewed sense of purpose, so soon after finding it. What came next?

He set the papers down, covering the point marking the Circle Tower. “Simple problems first,” he murmured to himself with the ghost of a smile. There was a war to end. Then he could worry about what in the Maker’s name a free man did with his life.


	10. Arrivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delegates begin to arrive in Haven in the leadup to the Divine's Conclave.

Haven

20 Whitemarch 9:41 Dragon

The list was long and growing. Nearly every Circle that Cullen could name was on it. Perendale Circle. Eight templar delegates. Seven mage delegates. Kirkwall Circle. No templar delegates. Nine mage delegates. His expression hovered somewhere between a frown and a hollow smile. Nearly every surviving mage from Kirkwall, excluding the apprentices. He had rejected the idea of sending a Kirkwall templar representative long before Cassandra had recruited him. Any contribution they might have made would have been overshadowed by their legacy.

Ghislain Circle. Ten templar delegates. Ten mage delegates. White Spire, Circle. No formally acknowledged templar delegates. No formally acknowledged mage delegates. But everyone knew that representatives both sides would be here. Cumberland Circle. A glaring blank where the Grand Enchanter should have been. Not a promising sign of her commitment to the freedoms for which she had fought.

Lake Calenhad Circle.

Cullen sighed and ran a hand through his hair, squinting against the glare of the sun off snow-covered peaks. The paper in his hand fluttered. The breeze, probably.

Kinloch Hold. He could hardly have expected them not to attend.

The name had lost some of its visceral horror during his time in Kirkwall as more immediate threats had taken precedence. But there had always been that little trickle of dread. It had oozed and clawed its way a little closer back to the surface now, without lyrium to hide it. He found he had braced himself as if expecting a blow. If he reacted as he had on the journey here…

“Maker give me strength,” he muttered angrily. It shouldn’t still matter so much. It was over ten _years_ ago.

He exhaled and dragged his focus back to the list when the expected headache didn't make an appearance.

Lake Calenhad Circle. Four templar delegates. Twelve mage delegates. Entirely separate contingents with the Circle itself defunct. Almost none of them names that he could recall. Ten years was certainly more than enough time for a Circle to change, and there had been so few survivors after the breaking and the Blight. Or at least he hoped that was why so few of the names were familiar.

Regardless, it was probably for the best. Maker knew what he would say to anyone who had known him.

A Knight-Commander Hadley led the templar delegates. Hadley had been newly promoted to Knight-Captain when Cullen had been sent away. He wondered what had happened to Greagoir. The memory was almost certainly warped by his own anger and lingering resentment, but his erstwhile Knight-Commander had been a shadow of his former self after the breaking of the Circle.

Perhaps he had died, or simply been retired and replaced with someone less likely to lose an entire Circle to abominations. He had been a coward, cowering outside the— He exhaled and reined back the runaway resentment. Emotional instability and difficulty separating the past from the present. Cassandra had told him those symptoms might linger past initial withdrawal. It would fade. Hopefully. Twice in his life was more than enough to have to endure those problems.

What might Greagoir think of Cullen now? He had probably expected Cullen to fade into obscurity, not gather even more notoriety. And what in the Maker’s name would Cullen say to him? That was probably a question that would never be answered. Which was probably also for the best.

A whole host of other Circles. Montsimmard. Ostwick. Ansburg. Even a pair of travelers from Hossberg. Knight-Commander Carsten from defunct Starkhaven Circle. He would have to warn Rylen.

Cullen winced. And no one from Dairsmuid.

“Merciful Maker, may they find peace at your side,” he murmured. Kirkwall hadn’t taught the lessons it should have done.

White Spire, Templar Order High Command. Knight-Vigilant Trentwatch and a number of his staff. Then another glaring blank. The Lord Seeker’s name ought to have been there. He was the true power over what was left of the Order. Perhaps both he and the Grand Enchanter planned to arrive in secret.

A raft of Knights-Commander or Knights-Captain from various garrisons across Thedas, accompanied by their escorts numbering anything from a single Knight-Templar to a full squad. Thirty-nine ‘interested parties’ who intended to observe. People with familial links to the Order or Circles, a few ambassadorial representatives. The remoteness of the region had prevented too many curious eyes from attending.

There was note from Sister Nightingale to suggest that others had begun to arrive in secret without declaring themselves. Grey Wardens, Dalish clan representatives, even a handful of Carta dwarves. None of them seemed to be an explicit threat, but the secrecy made Cullen uncomfortable nonetheless.

His lip curled. Fifty-seven templars of no stated alignment. Renegades. He could sympathise with those who had chosen to follow the Lord Seeker or those who had stayed loyal to their postings. But never the renegades.

Sixty-four mages of no stated alignment and only rarely a stated fraternity. Apostates, life-long or otherwise. Even a single apostate would have been enough to make him uneasy and wish he had lyrium to hand.

There would be enough mages to create a Circle of their own here, and enough templars to secure it. Granted, the templars were almost exclusively weighted towards officers, and commanding officers at that. But aside from the glorified bureaucrats in High Command, a Knight-Commander was no less capable of subduing a mage than any other templar. Inevitably, their experience and a position of command in the Order came with a healthy wariness at the idea of unsecured mages. It could be a recipe for another disaster if they failed to keep the peace.

“Slacking off, Curly?”

Cullen suppressed a sigh and turned on a heel. “Varric. Rylen.”

Rylen offered a casual salute and sauntered up behind Varric. “Commanders don’t work,” he commented in a loud whisper. “It’s us poor Knights-Captain who get lumped with it.”

He gave Cullen a wide grin that lessened the jibe. Rylen had been sent to Kirkwall following the chantry explosion, after all. They had both worked side by side for days on end without stopping in the wake of that tragedy. Compared to that, this was very nearly sedate. Not that he intended to ask for any disasters to increase the pace. He had had enough of that kind of excitement to last a few lifetimes.

“Maker’s breath. I should have known you two would get along well.”

“We may hate each other’s guts when we’re home,” Rylen replied nobly, “but the Free Marches sticks together where it matters.”

Varric nodded mildly. “Starkhaven is like home compared to your backwater, Curly.”

“It barely qualifies as mine either. I’ve lived in Kirkwall for a third of my life,” Cullen replied absently. He narrowed his eyes at Rylen. “Seeker Pentaghast asked you to watch Varric in her stead then. Again.”

Rylen winced. “That’s what I get for doing a good job of it.”

“She noticed your hangover,” he replied flatly.

A hint of a smirk tugged at Cullen’s lips, and Varric snorted as Rylen spluttered out a protest. “Maker. It was once. And it hardly affected me. She can’t have noticed.”

“She’s a Seeker. It’s her job to notice everything that templars do.”

“And Seekers wonder why they’re so unpopular with the Order…” Rylen grumbled. He irritably straightened his sword belt and smoothed a crease in his robes. “At least she doesn’t have Kirkwall sewer patrols to threaten me with.”

“I’m sure I can find an appropriate substitute if you miss the sewers,” Cullen replied evenly. He handed over the handful of papers, humour fading away. Registering the Kinloch Hold delegates was someone else’s problem, thank the Maker. “The latest list of arrivals. Knight-Commander Carsten will be here.”

Rylen glowered, the thick tattoos on his face making the expression even less friendly. “The Maker is so very kind,” he growled.

Varric looked between the two of them. “Is there something I’m missing here?”

“Knight-Commander Carsten is — or was — my commanding officer in Starkhaven,” Rylen snapped, voice thick with sarcastic disdain. “Only he decided to recall us from Kirkwall to prance off and smite ‘heretic’ apostates rather than do something useful.”

“Ah. Nice guy then.”

“Misguided, I would say,” Cullen replied curtly. “He took care of the mages under his protection when Starkhaven’s Circle fell, and he _was_ the only one to send support to us.”

Rylen deflated slightly. “We just disagreed on our interpretation of events. He saw violent uprisings and a gathering of free mages as a new Tevinter.”

“It was a concern many of us had,” Cullen sighed, a tiny shiver running up his spine. Merciful Maker. A new Tevinter would almost inevitably lead to an Exalted March, whether the Chantry agreed or not.

“Well at least you didn’t try and stab the nearest mage to make yourself feel better.” Cullen winced internally. Rylen gave him far more credit than he deserved. Thankfully Rylen didn’t seem to notice any response from Cullen. He shook himself and glared at the list of delegates. “I’ll try be polite to him.”

“Try not to talk to him at all,” Cullen corrected him curtly. He watched a pair of mages making the trek up to the temple, expression perfectly neutral. Maker forgive him, but distrust was so easy. “I want the number of templars at the checkpoint to be doubled. All being well I intend to have Knight-Captain Briony provide support.”

Varric gave Cullen a sidelong glance. “A little paranoid there, Curly?”

“There are over one hundred mages scheduled to arrive over the next few days. Not all of them will look on the Divine kindly when she arrives.” He pinned Rylen with a flat look. “Double guard. Understood?”

There were at least two pieces of evidence to show that prominent Chantry representatives were at risk of assassination. Caution was definitely justified.

Rylen saluted crisply. His expression said he agreed with the sentiment. In all honesty, they were probably both paranoid. “Yes, Commander.”

“Good. Send Knight-Captain Briony to speak to me. Dismissed.”

Cullen eyed the the crowded spread of Haven’s surrounds as Rylen and Varric strode away. A few of the less capable civilian volunteers were still drilling on the packed ground outside their tents. Beyond them, a thin trickle of delegates filtered past the village and were directed onwards, up towards the Temple of Sacred Ashes. A few stopped by Haven itself to purchase supplies at exorbitant prices. The village was probably busier now than it had been in living memory.

The Conclave was scheduled to begin in barely over a week, soon after the Divine herself arrived. Wintersend had been chosen as the day to commence the proceedings. Perhaps she hoped that a festival representing new beginnings was a favourable symbol, for all that it meant travelling to this remote location in the depths of a Ferelden winter. He gave a wry shake of his head. Or maybe that was the point. Unite everyone against a common enemy. Weather.

He began to slog back down the muddied path towards their makeshift camp. He nodded a short greeting to Cassandra as she treked her way up in the opposite direction.

She stopped him, irritably shaking off a clod of dirty snow from her boot, and gave him a nod that he interpreted as pleased. “Five weeks.”

He returned her nod with a half smile. “It’s a start.”

Today marked five whole weeks without lyrium. It was only a tiny fraction of the eleven years he had been taking lyrium, but it _was_ a start. If only he didn’t still find himself missing it, skirting the emptiness in his mind like it was a gaping chest wound.

“It is better than that. To have stayed the path is an achievement. You should be proud.”

He snorted and folded his arms. “I’ll be proud at five months.” Or maybe five years. Cassandra hadn’t particularly wanted to give him the details, but relapses were inevitable. Maker knew how regularly or how severe he might have to expect. Living out a year would be more of an achievement.

“Be glad that there is use for this stubbornness,” she replied with an irritable grunt, before eyeing him critically. “Eat, Commander.”

He spotted Knight-Captain Briony’s approach over Cassandra’s shoulder. His appetite — never the most active — had yet to make a return. It would make as good an excuse as any. “Of course. After I’ve spoken to Knight-Captain Briony.”

She rolled her eyes. “Now,” she ordered him tolerantly. “You can speak with her in the tavern.”

“As ordered, Lady Cassandra,” he sighed. Best to pick his battles.

She snorted and raised her hand in farewell. “Good day, Commander.”

She continued her trudge up the path, looking on the verge of drawing her sword to do battle with the treacherous combination of mud and snow.

Briony stepped up and offered him a crisp salute. “You wanted to speak to me, Ser.”

“I did.” He dipped his head in the direction of Haven. “I assume you haven’t yet eaten. We’ll meet in the tavern.”

He led the way back down the path into the village. The wooden gates had been propped wide open to welcome the influx of visitors. Half might be mages and the other half might be armed and armoured warriors, but Haven had been surprisingly welcoming to them all. This part of the world had been relatively untouched by the troubles further down in the lowlands.

The welcome would have been _distinctly_ less friendly in Kirkwall, where riots had forced him to lock down the Gallows. Agreeing to contract a Qunari mercenary group for support had hardly helped matters. He had needed to head off any possible problems with his former subordinates before they appeared. Some of them had lost family or friends in the Qunari invasion of the city. A few had even fought the Qunari. They were obviously uneasy about the idea of working together. That the company employed at least one apostate mage, if not more, hardly helped matters. Maker knew it had taken an effort to remember that he wasn’t actually a commanding officer in a Circle any more. At least the group was as competent as their recommendations had implied.

The tavern was crowded enough when Cullen entered that it bordered on unpleasant. As if he needed any other excuses to avoid regular meal times. Raucous chatter bounced off the beams and rang a little too loudly in his ears.

He pointed out a spare table pushed up in a corner to Briony. “Take a seat, Knight-Captain. I’ll join you in a moment.”

The other patrons glanced over as the door banged shut behind them. The single table occupied by templars acknowledged him and Briony with nods that weren’t quite salutes but was deferential enough to pass as one.

And too many pairs of eyes atop mage robes watched him enter, settling first on Knight-Captain Briony in her heavy Ferelden templar plate, before studying him in just as much depth.

He could have guessed their fraternities and allegiances simply by their reactions. They ran the full spectrum from respectful to neutral to resentful. In a way, there was more conflict between the fraternities than there was between mages and templars. Given how fraught and downright convoluted relations had become, it was impossible to even guess where conflict might be most likely to erupt.

He shook off that line of thought and stepped over to the bar. The tavern’s owner rushed up, her expression some odd combination of harried and pleased.

“Commander,” she said brightly, wiping her hands on a towel. “Food?”

“Two plates of whatever is quickest.”

He propped his hip against the bar as she bustled away and began to throw together generous plates of food. The standard took some getting used to after a lifetime austerity. Food was generous in a templar barracks — it had to be given the demands placed on their bodies — but hardly luxurious or particularly enjoyable.

He had done his best to filter out the hubbub of conversation, but some deep-rooted instinct had his ears pricking up to pick a voice out of the general noise. "—used to be a templar. Where else would the Divine look for a military commander?"

"What did you say his name was?"

"Commander Cullen Rutherford."

"Maker's balls, Evelyn!” the second speaker exclaimed. “ _Knight-Captain_ Cullen of the _Gallows_? Don't tell me you didn't recognise the name."

Cullen didn't need to look to know that the first speaker would have gone pale. That was a common enough reaction from nigh on every new mage arrival. Cassandra had been optimistic to assume that mages would forgive and forget.

"Maker. I didn’t make the connection. He's trying to help promote peace between mages and templars? That's the last thing I would expect."

"Reform the Circles and throw away the key, more like,” growled a third.

The conversation dried up when he turned away from the bar, a plate of food balanced in each hand. He flicked an experienced glance over the speakers. Three of the four were wearing robes he associated with Free Marcher mages. The fourth was dressed like a noble. South coast accents with superficial similarity to that of Ferelden. The Ostwick delegates then. Hardly a surprise that his name was familiar to them. Still, it was far from the first time he had been spoken about behind his back.

His spine stiffened as he felt a prickle of magic in the air. _Maker_ _’s breath,_ he thought incredulously. _Are they trying to provoke a reaction?_

He fought back the instinct to suppress the casting as a scowl creased his brow. The few other templars in the tavern had obviously noticed too. There was a strained quality to the conversation at their table that said they weren’t really concentrating on what they were saying.

He stopped by the Ostwick table and leaned down slightly. There was a grin on the third speaker’s face, as if he really did want to provoke an incident. His companions looked less eager. That confirmed the culprit then.

From the corner of his eye, Cullen could see the single table of templar patrons. Any trace of humour in their faces was fading into expressionless blankness as their conversation dried up. Their subtle shifting told him they were freeing weapons for easier access. For all that they weren’t actually under his command, they knew who he was and the rank he had once held. They were waiting for direction. Or an excuse. He hoped it was the former.

“We’re here to find a _peaceful_ resolution,” he informed the offending mage curtly. “If that doesn’t interest you, I’ll have you escorted out of Haven. Politely.”

The fourth man laid a hand on his friend’s arm. “We’re all here for the same reason, Bowen. Let’s not cause any trouble.”

The subdued hum of latent magic stayed for just long enough to start gnawing at Cullen’s straining instincts before fading away. The mage shrugged. “I meant no harm by it, Messere,” he said insincerely.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Cullen replied flatly.

It wasn’t his problem any more. They could think what they wanted. So long as no one started a fight.

He stepped away from the table and resumed his winding route to the spot Briony had chosen. He flicked a glance at the table of templars long enough to note that they were reluctantly turning back to their meals. The conversation between the Ostwick delegates resumed as he walked away. Quieter, but still loud enough for him to pick out.

“See? Still a thug.”

The fourth speaker laughed. “Didn’t seem that bad to me. I’d imagine you should be glad this isn’t the Gallows.”

Cullen had to agree. If a mage had tried to provoke him back then, he would have had them thrown into solitary confinement whilst a thorough investigation was conducted into the possibility of possession. He would have thought it the bare minimum response. Meredith simply would have proposed Tranquility as the safest option.

“You’re not actually a templar yet, Trevelyan, so you don’t have to side with them,” the third speaker snapped irritably. “Just keep quiet and observe like your parents told you to.”

Whatever response the fourth speaker might have made was lost behind a raucous outbreak of forced laughter from another table. Cullen eased himself into the seat opposite Briony and set down their plates. She was studying him, hands clasped on the table in front of her.

Cullen nodded in the direction of the Ostwick delegates’ table. “Tell me, Ser Briony. How would you have handled a situation like that?”

“I’ve never served in a Circle, Ser,” she replied neutrally, expression studiously blank. “I’m not sure I can provide the appropriate answer.”

He spread his hands wide. “I'm no longer a Knight-Commander, nor am I judging your fitness to serve in a Circle. Answer as you feel best.”

“So this conversation is a test, Ser.”

“Of a sort,” he replied with an easy shrug. It made as good a scenario as any to refine his judgement of her disposition.

She snorted. “Ser.” She paused to think, a thumb running along a ridged edge of her gauntlets. “None of the procedures we have were designed with the idea of free mages in mind. An apostate provoking a templar is necessarily considered an imminent threat.”

“Granted. But as a Knight-Captain, you should be able to handle more unusual situations when they occur. If not…”

He trailed off, allowing her to fill in the rest of the sentence. _If not, your fitness for a command role is in question_. If she was hesitant because felt she had to provide the answer he was expecting, it didn’t bode particularly well. If she was hesitant because she simply didn’t have any idea how to handle anything other than the most basic problems, that was worse. He didn’t take her for a hesitant officer.

She narrowed her eyes at him and pursed her lips. The implication had served its purpose. She’d already provided him with enough of her service history for him to know she was a reasonably competent officer with years more experience in the Order than he had. It took a certain level of self-confidence to reach that point. In most cases.

“Alright then,” she said firmly. “You’ve said we’re here to keep the peace and ensure the conclave runs smoothly. Judgements have to be made on context and past trends.” She paused again and folded her arms as if expecting him to challenge her. He waved a hand for her to continue, expression as unreadable as hers. “In the current situation, I’d consider placing him under observation.”

“Not an unreasonable suggestion, although it could worsen the problem,” Cullen noted. “I doubt he’d appreciate a reminder of the Circles.”

“I suppose not,” she allowed. “But frankly, Ser, I’ve seen plenty of his type, if not in a Circle context. I doubt there will be any further problems unless someone provokes him. He’s a hothead. We try to drill it out of the recruits early before it gets them killed.”

And hotheads were considered to be at greater risk of possession. In the Gallows he would have been placed under observation if that tendency had been noticed. He would never have been allowed to face his Harrowing if he hadn’t shown an improvement. But this wasn’t a Circle. Maker knew it was difficult to adapt to such a change in requirements.

“A fair judgement, although erring on the side of caution isn’t unwise. Unfortunately there’s no straightforward answer for us, but I will be passing his name on to Sister Nightingale as a potential trouble-causer.” He leaned forwards, pushing his untouched meal to one side. “But we’re not here just to police the mages. What if one of our templar delegates had chosen to respond inappropriately?”

Her glance flicked over to the table of templars. She outranked them all, which likely made the question easier. He wasn’t cruel enough to expect her to order around a Knight-Commander.

“Order them to stand down. Unless a mage is an active threat, they don’t have the authority to do anything without order—” she choked to a stop. To her credit, she maintained eye contact, acknowledging the fault.

“The Order no longer has the authority to step in for anything other than an active threat to life,” he responded deceptively mildly. Better to head that off in case she still felt some need to obey the orders her former Knight-Commander had given her. “Is that understood?”

“Understood, Commander,” she replied firmly.

“Good enough. It’s not easy for any of us to accept,” he sighed. “But we just have to keep the peace. Working out where things go next is someone else’s problem.”

“All due respect, but there’s only so much I can do, Ser. If a Knight-Commander orders me to—”

“You’re not in their chain of command. Leave any incidents with Knights-Commander to me.”

She looked faintly relieved. “Gladly, Ser,” she replied, before clasping her hands back together again. “I assume this means that my men and I will be given something more to do? We’re willing to earn your trust.”

“You’ll be given that opportunity. I can’t afford to let anyone go spare. You’ll be supporting Knight-Captain Rylen in the pass to the temple now that delegates are arriving in force.”

“As ordered, Ser. My men will be glad for the change in scenery.”

She began to pick at her food, but her gaze was focused more on the tavern’s patrons than her plate. Cullen took the silence as an opportunity to scan the room again, gaze darting from table to table, noting who was watching them and who wasn’t. A part of him kept worrying that it couldn’t see any templars dotted around the perimeter of the room to stand watch over such a large gathering.

“All this must make you uncomfortable,” Briony commented suddenly, waving a hunk of bread around to take in the patrons. The comment was phrased casually, but he could see how keenly she was watching for any response from him.

“What makes you say that?” he asked neutrally, pulling his attention back to her. As if she hadn’t noted the way he had shifted his chair around when he had sat down so that his back wasn’t to the rest of the room.

She gave him a wan smile. “You must have seen as many abominations and maleficarum in one year as I’ve seen in my entire career. Call it the educated guess of a long-serving templar.”

He chuckled without much humour. “I suppose that’s deserved given my reputation. There are eighteen mages in this tavern. Five templars, including ourselves. It could be worse.” He paused, then added, as much for himself as her, “This isn’t a Circle.”

“Meaning you’ll neither confirm nor deny feeling uncomfortable,” she commented around a mouthful of bread. “I’ve been around long enough to recognise an evasion for what it is.”

“Our personal feelings, our emotions — whatever they might be — shouldn’t have any undue influence on our actions,” he responded, perhaps a little more forcefully than was necessary. “I hardly need to tell that to an experienced templar.”

She paused with another hunk of bread halfway to her mouth. “Of course, Ser.”

He sighed and began to pick at his own meal. Now that it was in front of him, he found he actually _was_ hungry. “Tell me, Knight-Captain. Do you regret agreeing to be recruited? The situation is far from conventional.”

She chewed her way through the rest of her food before answering. “In all honesty, not as much as I expected, Ser. I felt like a common brigand waiting to mug some unlucky traveller. It was so far below us that my Knight-Commander should have been embarrassed to even suggest it.”

“His name hasn’t appeared on the list of delegates,” Cullen noted.

Her mouth twisted into a slight frown. “He thought negotiation was futile, Ser. Worse, he thought it was dangerous. But this,” she indicatedin the direction of the mountain path up to the temple, “this means something. Certainly more than taking out our frustrations on the easiest target.” She paused and smiled wryly to herself. “Not that taking out frustrations can’t be satisfying.”

Cullen smirked. He could empathise with that. “I _have_ noticed you making enthusiastic use of the training dummies. I can’t imagine a formal duelling style was something you learned in a templar training facility.”

“Oh Maker,” she laughed, a small amount of tension falling from her posture. “My instructors would have hated the very thought.”

“Apostates don’t care if you look pretty. Abominations aren’t going to give you a fair fight. Quick. Efficient. Get the job done.”

“Knight-Lieutenant Golavan?” she chuckled. “You must have trained in Denerim. I can’t believe he was still around to teach you.” She winced. “No insult intended, Ser.”

“The majority of my subordinates have been older than me for my entire career,” he replied, waving away the comment. “If not from a templar instructor, where in the Maker’s name did you learn to duel?”

“City assignments can be dull. There are plenty of young nobles who think they can outfight a templar, but they claim our techniques aren’t ‘fair’.”

Cullen snorted at that. “Fair would get us killed.”

“Surprisingly enough, they didn’t appreciate the argument,” she replied with a slight smirk. “So I thought I’d learn how to beat them at their own game. I doubt I’d have won against the more experienced duellists, but I probably enjoyed it more than I should have done,” she added, looking vaguely guilty.

“It’s good way to end up with a sword in the gut.”

“Completely impractical,” she agreed. “But try telling that to some Arl’s son. I don’t think they’re especially interested in the kind of combat training we’re drilled in.”

“It would probably be easier to name a class of weapon we weren’t introduced to,” he sighed. “Maker knows how there was time for it all.”

“Polearms. Blunt weaponry. Greatsword. Sword and shield. Hand to hand. Ranged for those who showed a knack for it,” she said, marking each off on her fingers. “But we have our odd habits too. In all my years as a templar, I’ve never seen a single one of us use a polearm after their initiation.”

“Of course,” he replied sardonically. “We could hardly be seen wielding a weapon associated with apostates.”

“For which I’m glad. I hated polearms. Unpleasantly unwieldy things.”

“You must have made yourself very popular with Knight-Lieutenant Golavan.”

“There was some friction.” She tailed off and set aside her empty plate, looking far more at ease now than she had since her arrival in Haven. “Thank you, Ser. For the meal, and for some … perspective. I _am_ glad to be doing something, even if our priorities have been shifted and even if…”

“Even if you had to disobey orders to do so.”

She met his gaze evenly, but her fists clenched on the table in front of her. “We’ve all been put in an impossible situation. Orders or duty. And Maker even knows how we go about doing our duty now. May Andraste guide me. Right or not, disobeying was the only way I could face the Maker with pride.”

His brows furrowed in a faint frown. “I can understand the sentiment.”

“I imagine so.” She eyed him carefully and gave a slow nod. “I’ll bear everything you’ve said in mind.”

“I know how it feels to be uncomfortable with the orders you’ve been given. If you have doubts, I want you to speak to me first,” he told her firmly. “I trust you to handle yourself appropriately otherwise.”

And if not, well, Leliana had made her dedication to the Conclave’s success quite clear. Knight-Captain Briony would not be a problem either way.

“I appreciate that, Ser.” She began to ease herself out of her chair. “By your leave, I’ll prepare my men to support Ser Rylen.”

“Of course. Dismissed.”

He watched her leave and nodded once to himself. Leliana had dug out enough of Briony’s past to determine that she wasn’t a radical. From what he had seen of her himself, there was every suggestion that she didn’t bear any excessive or unjustifiable hatred towards mages.

Her guilt would be harder to fight. That she did feel guilty was good. It meant she wouldn’t make a habit of disobeying orders. Rylen had faced precisely the same challenge when he had chosen not to obey the orders of his own Knight-Commander. He had always been a practically minded man, assigning more value to doing the right thing than blindly respecting the chain of command. He had been indispensable in Kirkwall. There was a reason he had decided that Rylen was the ideal choice for a second-in-command. Maker willing, he would provide Briony with a way to assuage the guilt.

Cullen gathered up the empty plates and deposited them by the bar, then gladly left the press of the tavern and its watchers. The Divine would arrive in a week. There was plenty more work to be done.

Haven

27 Whitemarch 9:41 Dragon

It had been a long time since Cullen had seen this many templars in parade formation. There weren’t many. Certainly nothing to match Kirkwall in its prime. By the time the time Meredith had taken over stewardship of the city, he had shared responsibility for what amounted to a small army. But every templar that he could spare was here.

He eyed them critically, but there was no glaring fault that he could find. Each one boasted freshly polished armour and robes that were as neatly pressed as could be expected in a camp half way up a mountain. If he couldn’t find a fault, the Divine wouldn’t either.

He flexed icy fingers in their gloves and gave Karellian a brusquely approving nod that he made sure would be seen and noted by every one of the attentive templars.

“They don’t disappoint, Ser Karellian.”

“Ser,” he acknowledge curtly. “Let’s hope the Divine doesn’t disappoint either.”

There was a wealth of unvoiced and pent up resentment in those few words. Three years without any Chantry support. Three years left to rebuild Kirkwall alone. It was _still_ rebuilding. Three years struggling to support themselves, a city on the verge of collapse and a handful of rightfully traumatised mages. It stung.

Cullen turned to face the bridge into Haven and sighed. He believed in the Divine’s cause. The Divine herself… Time would tell. He didn’t know what to think of her. She was the Maker’s representative on Thedas. In theory. In practice, everyone was fallible. Templars were supposed to be the Maker’s own servants, but that ideal had certainly fallen short on more than one occasion.

“I pray you’re right,” he said finally.

“If you don’t mind me taking the liberty of that prayer, Ser…” Karellian drew himself to attention and scowled briefly up at the sky. “Merciful Maker. May you grant this is all resolved quickly and cleanly. Then we can all go home.”

It was the battlefield prayer of a templar rather than the dignified benediction of a Chantry Sister, but for all its irreverence, it was heartfelt.

“Maker grant it be so,” Cullen murmured in response.

They fell into an easy silence as Cullen’s remaining senior officers joined. Rylen offered Cullen a short nod that nonetheless said just how little he cared for the spectacle. Briony seemed subdued. She could easily have been watching the Divine’s arrival from a very different location. Fabian seemed nonchalant in contrast. Maybe seeing the Divine was commonplace for him. More likely, he just hadn’t ever had quite the same deference for Chantry hierarchy drilled into him from a young age like the rest of them had.

The first of the Divine’s escort burst over the bridge into Haven in a clatter of hooves. A long banner curled in the wind, pure white emblazoned with a crisp Chantry sunburst the colour of freshly spilt blood and glittering with embroidery. Brilliant gold-plated armour glowed in the sunlight as the pair trotted down into Haven. The mysterious Knights-Divine, personal bodyguards to the head of the Andrastian Chantry. Fanatically loyal to her alone.

The Divine’s carriage rolled over the bridge next. A surprisingly sensible vehicle for the terrain, but ornamented to an almost comic degree. Others trundled along behind, less decorative, but as obviously displaying signs of their Chantry allegiance. No doubt various Chantry functionaries to give further weight or support to the proceedings. As if bureaucrats were what this process needed.

The Knights-Divine rode steadily alongside the train, each one mounted on chargers that seemed to have been bred for their appearance and smooth gait as much as their strength. They hardly made for a subtle group, ostentatiously attired compared to the functional steel that served every other templar perfectly well.

Cullen saluted, fist to heart, and gave a precisely calculated bow as the Divine’s carriage passed. He wasn’t a templar any more, but this _was_ the Divine.

The strident sound of metal striking metal echoed as every templar behind him followed his lead. A Knight-Divine turned to register their homage as he passed, studying them from behind a blank helm framed by wings like knives. His hand never left the hilt of his sword. That was paranoia with which Cullen could empathise.

Cullen straightened as the Divine’s carriage moved on past him. The garish spectacle made him uncomfortable. And it was all so very … Orlesian. Like the lion helmet that he had conveniently misplaced.

“Showy, aren’t they?” Rylen whispered dismissively as the last of the procession rolled past.

Cullen cast a warning glance at Rylen. Not that he didn’t agree.

“I’ve never heard how the Knights-Divine get recruited,” Karellian muttered. “Not from actual serving templars like us.”

“Thinking of joining, Karellian?”

Karelian barked out a short laugh. “Andraste’s flaming sword. Not a chance.”

“Glowering at heretics and those who dare so much as think of speaking to the Divine,” Rylen retorted dryly. “Sounds like a good retirement position to me.”

“You must have heard the stories about Knight-Divine Brisson and Divine Amara III."

“Maker. Do I want to?”

“I’ve wondered about the Knights-Divine myself,” Cullen said, relenting enough to reply quietly to their comments before someone overheard them discussing rumours like that. If a Knight-Divine decided to complain about his lack of decorum, too bad.

“So their mysteries aren’t something reserved for Knights-Commander then? You weren’t secretly obeying them rather than the Knight-Vigilant?” Rylen asked.

“If I was, no one bothered to tell me. Maybe the Knight-Vigilant meant to provide a proper briefing when all this ‘blew over’,” he mused sardonically.

“Wherever they stand, it’s higher than Knights-Captain like us or even Knights-Commander like you,” Karellian growled.

“And you can be sure they’ll lord that status over every templar here, former or serving,” Rylen added with certainty.

Fabian chuckled and chipped in. “‘Fraid that both of you are right. The Knights-Divine only answer to the Divine herself. How else do you think they could stand to ignore the Lord Seeker when they live in the same city?”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen sighed. “So long as they don’t interfere with the arrangements we’ve made, I can tolerate them.”

Karellian’s disbelieving snort said how much faith he had in that faint hope.

Cullen eyed the tail end of the Divine’s train as it trundled on up to the temple. “We’ve wasted enough time here. Back to current assignment,” he ordered. “If a templar or a mage so much as sneeze at each other, I want to hear about it. Briefings at the eighth bell.”

There was a bevy of salutes. Orders were called out for the parade ranks. They dispersed, marching up to the temple or back to man the path into Haven.

Cullen began his own long trudge up the mountain. Time to meet the Divine.

~~~~

The Divine had greeted Leliana and Cassandra, her Right and Left Hands, with dignified affection. She held her head carefully as she listened now, balancing a headdress that seemed to be almost as tall as she was. Sharp eyes watched them from nests of wrinkles as they had each provided their briefings in turn.

She hadn’t waited long before summoning her advisers, away from her entourage of bureaucrats and bodyguards. And for all her frailty, she hadn’t seemed to tire throughout the long meeting. If nothing else, it was a promising start. This really was more than just her bid to regain the Chantry’s supremacy over the Order and the Circles. He wasn’t entirely sure what he would have done if she had turned out to be grabbing for power. Probably accept it as the way of the world and do his best. Again.

It was a sign of how much trust she had laid in her Hands to allow them to select advisers on her behalf. Josephine was clearly an accomplished diplomat, but his choice had undoubtedly been controversial even before he had stated his conditions for accepting the offer. Maker knew what she had thought when Cassandra had relayed his request to be permitted to both resign his commission and forsake lyrium. But she had passed on her blessing, freed him from the vow that bound him to the Order. And her greetings after her introductions to himself and Josephine had been almost as warm as her greetings for Leliana and Cassandra.

Now she rested in a simple room and a simpler chair, dwarfed by her formal clothing, long and pristinely white robes that only seemed to emphasise her age. A glossy statue of Andraste loomed behind her. The statue’s hands were clasped about the hilt of her sword as she stared inscrutably at something only she could see, carven flames licking at her feet.

The Divine seemed almost as resigned as she folded her hands in her lap and informed them that the Lord Seeker had remained in Val Royeaux and would make no effort to join them in Haven, despite the fact that he had readily agreed to the idea of the Conclave.

“The Grand Enchanter is bad enough, but the Lord Seeker has also chosen not to attend?” Cassandra asked in naked disbelief. “I do not understand. It is not like Lucius to go back on his word.”

The Divine rested a thin hand on Cassandra’s arm. “This war has changed him, Cassandra.” She turned an even look on Cullen. “What is your interpretation, Commander?”

Cullen shifted to attention, a scowl flickering across his face before he smoothed it away to professional blankness. “Neither expect the Conclave to succeed, or perhaps they simply do not want to see it succeed. They will not risk assassination for what they see as a pointless gesture.”

“No real decisions can be made without them,” Cassandra protested. “They make it pointless by not attending.”

“The Lord Seeker took overall command of the Order after the Nevarran Accord was anulled, but the Knight-Vigilant must still have enough influence to speak on their behalf once he arrives,” Cullen said. “And with all due respect, Lady Cassandra, it’s better for him to make decisions for the Order than a Seeker.”

Cassandra nodded a reluctant agreement. “I am still disappointed at the Lord Seeker’s sudden lack of commitment to this Conclave.”

“He has not left the conclave entirely free of his influence,” Leliana said. Her eyes flickered as she sorted through the endless supply of information she had stored in her head. “Knight-Commander Marteau of the Montsimmard Circle claims to speak on the Lord Seeker’s behalf.” She paused and folded her arms. “Just as the Grand Enchanter has sent a representative to speak on her behalf.”

“This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “Clearly neither the Lord Seeker nor the Grand Enchanter are taking this seriously.”

Meaning the negotiations really were bordering on futile. Even if a decision could miraculously be reached, it would be made by individuals. Each one could decide to hold to an agreement or not as they saw fit. It wasn’t binding for the Order as a whole without the Lord Seeker to ratify it in person. He could easily override the Knight-Vigilant now that the Order had become subservient to the Seekers of Truth. And small hope that the mages would consider a decision any more binding, especially considering that many disagreed with the current Grand Enchanter’s goals. The best they could expect was to extract agreements out of the representatives of each fraternity.

The Divine gave a slow shake of her head. “It is in the Maker’s hands. The Conclave will begin with or without them.” She studied Cullen. “And is the Temple of Sacred Ashes secure? I would rather our efforts not be wasted by a single extremist.”

He closed his eyes and wrapped his hand a little tighter around his sword. As if he needed a reminder of just how catastrophically wrong things could go.

“We’ve done all we can, your perfection,” he replied flatly. “I have men regularly sweeping the temple for anything suspicious. No one unauthorised is permitted inside the building. If there is a threat, it’s not something that any of the templars or mages under my command can identify.”

“All those serving under Commander Cullen can be trusted,” Leliana added. “I made sure of it.”

“Good.” She stood carefully. “That is all for now. Thank you.”

The Divine stopped Cullen as he made to file out behind the others. “A word, if I may, Commander.”

“Of course, your perfection,” he murmured, standing uneasily at attention with his hands clasped behind his back as she settled back in her seat.

“A little more informality is allowed from my advisers,” she told him with a small smile. “I do not expect you to stand on ceremony for your entire life.”

He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. Merciful Maker. Informality with the Divine herself. He had no idea how to take that. “As you wish,” he replied warily.

“Cassandra’s choice was an interesting one,” she began. “Had she made the same suggestion three years ago, I would have rejected it out of hand. But-” she continued before Cullen could respond, “Cassandra’s impression of you swayed me. She told me of your efforts in Kirkwall and your actions in the Gallows during the final years of Meredith’s command.”

“I didn’t do enough,” he murmured.

“I am equally guilty. I was hesitant in acting as I should.” She paused and studied Cullen for a moment, seeming to consider her next words. “I was strongly considering the prospect of an Exalted March on the city after Knight-Commander Meredith requested the Rite of Anullmement. Kirkwall seemed to be on the edge of a dangerous eruption of forbidden magic.”

Cullen’s eyes widened. “Merciful Maker. I lived with that expectation every day after I helped kill my own Knight-Commander, but I hadn’t realised it had been suggested that early.”

“It seemed the only viable option, but I realise now that war would have helped no one.” She gestured to take in the temple, a long white sleeve brushing over the armrest of her chair. “Hence this Conclave.”

“Maker willing it’s a better option than repeating our mistakes,” Cullen replied, folding his arms. “I saw the rest of the Order make the same catastrophic decisions that were made in the Gallows. They made war inevitable.”

“Hindsight is easy, Commander,” the Divine reprimanded him lightly. “Regardless, the Chantry owes you an apology. We failed to recognise the needs and difficulties of the Order and the Circles. And so now we have a war. We failed to help Kirkwall and thousands lost their lives. We abandoned you in your time of need,”

“Thank you,” he replied shortly. He wished the apology meant more, but it came three years to late to help anyone who had died in Kirkwall.

She frowned at him, recognising the apathetic response for what it was. “You resent the Chantry. You requested permission to leave the Order, something that vanishingly few templars do, let alone those of your rank. Why?”

“With all due respect, that’s far more personal than I’m comfortable admitting to the Divine herself,” he retorted before he could think the answer through properly. He winced, bracing himself for a reprimand. Of all the times to let his emotions slip free of control.

She looked mildly surprised before acknowledging the retort with a wry smile. “I hope we can build sufficient trust working together that you are willing to tell me. This war and the split from the Chantry was festering long before I ascended to this position. I must understand what went wrong.”

Cullen held back on a dry chuckle. She might regret asking for that. His list of grievances was hardly short. “An admirable goal,” he allowed.

“If you so resent the Chantry, why did you accept Cassandra’s offer?” She quirked a small smile. “Unless that is also personal.”

His chuckle escaped him entirely this time before he sobered. “My personal grievances are no reason to reject a chance to help resolve a war I wasn’t able to stop.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I couldn’t sit and rot in the Gallows when supporting the Conclave might give us an opportunity to resolve all our grievances. Mage _and_ templar.”

“You believe in the Conclave, but not the Chantry, then.”

He gave her an apologetic nod. “I have faith.”

 _Just not in the Chantry._ If he really looked back, he might have lost his faith in the Chantry long before Kirkwall, when he had been shuffled away to Greenfell and plied with lyrium because he was _inconvenient_ . Then expelled from Greenfell because he was _difficult_.

“Faith is a vital quality that too many lack.” She clasped her hands and peered at him. “But how do you feel, Commander?”

Cullen blinked at her. “How do I feel? I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“You made one of the most difficult decisions a templar can make,” she replied calmly.

Cullen’s heart clenched. Was she questioning his ability to continue lyrium-free? Or worse, was she leading up to the moment where she overrode his convictions and ordered him to begin taking lyrium again?

“I’m—” he swallowed against a dry throat, “It’s not a problem, your perfection.”

She gave another wry smile that said she knew the words were just a polite fiction. “Cassandra has faith that you can do what few others have done. Maker grant that your strength of conviction remains unwavering.”

He dipped his head in thanks for the benediction. He found he was surprised that she hadn’t insisted he return to lyrium, for all that she had granted him permission to forsake it in the first place. A part of him had been expecting her to rescind her approval. _It might have been the more sensible option given the circumstances_ , he thought guiltily. As a military adviser, he wasn't sure he could recommend it as a course of action, for all that it didn't seem to have had much of an influence on his judgement. But he was glad she hadn't now that he finally felt he was making progress.

She stood and shuffled over towards him to clasp one of his hands. Maker. He hadn’t realised they had started trembling again. “When we have built our trust, I hope you might help me understand what it is that broke the faith of a loyal man like yourself in the Chantry and the Order to which he swore himself.”

“If only it were that easy. But thank you,” he replied, a little more genuinely than he had the previous time.

She blinked wearily at him, reminding Cullen with a guilty lurch of just how old she was. The long journey could hardly have been easy. “I am glad we were able to speak. But I must bid you a good night.”

“Of course, your perfection.”

He eased himself out of her chambers and shut the door behind himself with a sigh. The Divine wasn’t what he had expected. She recognised that the Chantry had problems, even if she didn’t yet know why the Order and the Circles might take issue with its former control over them. Maybe this Conclave had a chance after all.


End file.
